


Delirium

by gabbyfaithh



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-13 21:36:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 36,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7138211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabbyfaithh/pseuds/gabbyfaithh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After searching a year and a half for his brother, Sam is finally contacted by Dean, who had disappeared after an alarming phone call to his brother. He coaxes Sam to join him in the search for their father, but Sam has every intention to return to Stanford, and his girlfriend. However, when Jess dies, Sam reunites with Dean for good, and he is desperate to drown his sorrows in any possible way, even if it involves indulging in the newfound peculiar feelings for his brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Drowning Feelings

Leaving Dean was always the hardest part. It was always his face that haunted Sam when he left his brother. The sullen look on his face, with buried sadness and desperation underlying its surface. That was the way Dean looked at Sam when he dropped his little brother off at Stanford. Except this time, there was an added sense of defeat, of reproach, that tagged along. Dean was angry at his brother for leaving. Sam could see it in the way Dean avoided his apologetic gaze. Sam wanted to comfort his brother, tell him that this wasn’t the end, that he would come back, one day, but he didn’t. Because he knew that that was a lie. Sam would never go back voluntarily. Much like Dean, Sam had no fight left in him. He was tired of fighting with Dean over this particular topic. It wasn’t Sam’s fault that Dean had extreme abandonment issues. Sam needed this. To prove to himself, and to Dad and Dean, that he could be more than a killer, more than just a hunter. Sam’s skin crawled at the thought of their father. His heart ached for Dean, who would have to take Dad’s abuse without Sam there to soften the blow of their angry, drunken father’s insults. Would he be okay?

Sam realized he was staring. Dean shifted uncomfortably under Sam’s thoughtful gaze, but still wouldn’t look at his staring brother. Sam’s heart sunk lower in his chest. To say that going back home with Dean wasn’t a thought that seemed momentarily plausible in Sam’s mind at that time would be a lie. But Sam had to stand his ground. And, besides, with Dad and his fight the preceding night, Sam knew that he had nowhere else to go; Dad wouldn’t take him in without a promise to never leave again. And even then, he’d give Sam the cold shoulder for months after.

“Thank you… for the ride,” Sam murmured as he shoved his hands in his jean pockets and fixed his gaze on the ground. There was a single pebble there, and Sam rolled it back and forth under his shoe. Dean shrugged. Said nothing. A dreadful feeling bubbled in Sam’s chest. He didn’t want to remember Dean this way―cold and distant―all his walls built up and guarded.

“I hope you can understand, Dean. This isn’t your fault, okay?” Sam could tell that his brother wasn’t listening, not really. He looked up. Dean shrugged again. Sam’s eyes fell back to the concrete.

“Do you maybe want to scope out the place?” Sam offered, knowing that Dean would say no, but still foolishly hoping he’d accept anyway.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. Dad caught wind of a hunt. I should go join him.” It was then that Dean finally moved, pushing himself up and off the Impala and opening the door. Sam panicked. Dean was leaving, and he was angry. Sam needed to salvage this moment while he still could.

“Dean,” Sam said before he could stop himself, “come visit sometime?” The invitation was empty. Both boys knew that Dean wouldn’t visit. However, Dean nodded anyway then got into his car, turning the ignition. The familiar roar of the engine followed, and before Sam knew it, he was left in the dust of what Dean left, empty and aching. He felt ripped open, bleeding. What had he done?

\- 6 months later –

Sam had finally allowed his only friend, Brady, to take him to a bar. Christmas was right around the corner, so why not celebrate a break from stress?

Dean hated Christmas. He thought the whole idea was idiotic and almost disturbing. But Sam has a vague notion that that’s only because Dean once spent one Christmas Eve wrestling his 6-year-old brother out of the hands of some perv who reeked of body odor and sardines after Dean had told Sam to wait outside for him while he grabbed some food. Sam was so shaken up that Dean stayed up all night waiting for when he began to cry again. Sam was no longer fazed by it, but, for Dean, it was enough to ruin Christmas for life. Dean has always been this way―allowing the past to dictate his feelings. He doesn’t let go easily. Especially when it’s someone who’s hurt Sam or Dad. Sam still doesn’t really like Christmas.

Brady was beyond ecstatic at the prospect of getting Sam plastered. If only he knew that this wasn’t the first time his friend had gotten piss drunk. Sam had to admit, though, the idea of it wasn’t too unappealing as of then, especially with Dean’s face so prominent in the foremost of his mind. Sam missed him. God, he missed him. But, Dean wasn’t here, and alcohol was.

Midway through drinking his cares away, a short, slender blond bounded into Sam’s side, causing him to jerk and drop the beer he was currently nursing. It spilled. Sam sighed and glanced disappointedly at it before addressing the girl. She was on her feet within seconds, brushing herself off and smiling goofily, and, god, was she a sight.

“I’m sorry,” she giggled―tipsy, but not drunk, Sam decided―and hiccupped, “I’m not used to wearing these things.” Sam turned his gaze down to where she was gesturing, beholding a pair of stilettos that could gouge his eyes out.

“Don’t worry about it.” Sam offered a small smile. He wasn’t in the mood to flirt or even conversate. At all. Still, the girl reddened at his smile. She looked down at his spilled beer.

“Did I do that?” she asked, and before Sam could even think to answer, she said, “Let me buy you another one.” She called the bartender, and within a minute, the spill was cleaned and a new beer was placed before Sam. The girl smiled as he popped the top off with ease and took a long drag of it, allowing the alcohol to soak into him.

“What are you trying to forget?” the girl asked pointedly, “or who?” Sam thought he caught slight distaste at the way she said “who.”

And, whether it was the alcohol coursing through his veins, the incessant despair poking at his insides, or the concern in the blonde’s voice, he found himself saying, “Family stuff.” He felt unbelievably foolish for saying it after. He didn’t even know this girl’s name, and he was already spilling all his troubles.

“Ah,” she said, tracing a delicate, painted fingertip across the rim of her own shot glass she’d ordered with Sam’s beer. The sight looked out of place. Her hands were too soft, too pretty, to be doing that.

“Hello? Earth to Mr. Brood.” She waved a hand in front of his face, the same hand she was using to trace the shot glass, Sam decided. His eyes averted from her fingers to her face.

“I’m sorry.” The apology wasn’t genuine. He took another long sip of his beer. The pit in his stomach seemed to be growing even larger the longer this girl prodded at him. Dean’s face, despairing, defeated, and reproachful, was crystal clear and unavoidable behind his eyes. God, would he just get out of Sam’s head already?

“What happened with your family?” She avoided his apology, probably detecting the lack of authenticity behind it. When Sam looked at her, he saw real, raw concern there. He had to look away; it was too much. Why did she care? She’d just met him not even 20 minutes ago.

“I don’t even know your name,” he responded pointedly, “and you expect me to just spill everything. Sorry, Blondie, but no. Thanks for the beer though.”

She seemed wounded at that. Sam saw it in the way her cool demeanor faltered for a moment. Maybe she would leave. Sam hoped she would. Maybe then he could finally seek out Brady, wherever the drunken fucker was. He sipped his drink while he dove headfirst back into his thoughts. He savored the way the bitter liquid bubbled and rested on his taste buds before sliding down his throat in a hazy burn. What was Dean doing? He found himself wondering. Working on a case maybe? Researching? Taking some skimpy brunette home? Drinking? No, Dean wouldn’t be doing that. Not when Dad was probably hounding his ass. Not when Dad was probably plastered himself. Dean had to stay sober for that. He had to stay sober so he could always be there to take care of their drunken father, and when the hangover ensued, Dean had to be there to nurse him back to perfect health with his miraculous hangover cure.

“Jess,” someone said, breaking Sam out of his thoughts. Sam had to shift his gaze (which was glued to the table) to figure out who. It was the blond. Why hadn’t she left yet?

“What?” Sam asked, staring at her with blank, uninterested, and almost harsh eyes.

“My name. I’m Jessica, but everyone calls me Jess,” she responded, not seeming to notice the looks he sent her way, “And who are you? Or will I have to call you Mr. Brood all night?”

“Sam,” I answered curtly, hunching forward.

“Well, Sam, now that the niceties are out of the way, what’s on your mind?”

“Sorry, I just―” Sam’s shit excuse was cut off by the ring of his phone. He pulled it out, thinking that Brady had come to save the day at the perfect time. But, the name on the screen wasn’t Brady’s, and this definitely wasn’t going to save the day. It was Dean’s name flashing on the small screen. Sam’s heart leapt in his chest, making him uneasy. He had to answer this, fast.

“I―I really have to take this. Nice meeting you, Jake!” He called out, already halfway out of the bar by the time he slipped the wrong name. He pulled his phone open as soon as the rush of clean, cool air greeted him outside. It was a little nippy; maybe Sam should’ve grabbed his coat on the way out.

But the brisk air was the least of Sam’s worries as he exhaled shakily and put the phone to his ear. “Dean,” he breathed. His heart was pounding, and he was hot all over.

“Hey, Sammy!” Dean slurred. Was he drunk?

“Dude, are you drunk?” Sam voiced his thoughts, disbelief and shock clear in his tone as he did so.

“What do you care?” His brother spat, “You’re the one who took off to Cali to become some fancy schmancy lawyer guy.” Dean must’ve interpreted the disbelief in Sam’s voice for disgust. Typical Dean.

“I―Why’d you call, Dean?”

“Well, you obviously weren’t gonna.” His voice was coated with drunken rage, a coarseness to it that made the taste in Sam’s mouth go bad. Made the alcohol in his stomach turn to lava. However, along with the rage was a certain kind of sadness, and, due to Dean’s intoxication, it was all the harder to build his walls and hide his emotions. Dean was raw, vulnerable, and bleeding right now. Sam sighed.

“I’m sorry; I just thought―”

“Nah, fuck your apologies. It’s been months, Sammy. I expected at least a postcard by now.” Ah, even in drunkenness, Dean’s humor remained.

“I didn’t think you wanted to hear from me. The way we left things wasn’t exactly postcard material, Dean.”

“Since when do you care about what I want?” Dean’s voice was venomous, vehement, laced with a pain that was wrapped in spikes, twisted in a way so that the intention was to cut deep into Sam. Something choked Dean’s voice in his throat, and Sam couldn’t figure out what.

“So, if I called or sent a damn postcard, can you honestly say that you’d welcome it and me with open arms? No harm done?” Sam was also becoming irate.

“Yes.” Dean’s answer was immediate and blank, no question to it, no hinting of something more.

“Bullshit.”

“You were supposed to try, Sammy.” Now Sam knew what had gotten Dean so choked up; he was crying. Sam’s bubbling anger evaporated as if it’d never existed. All he cared about was seeing to it that Dean was okay.

“Dean, man, are you okay?”

“So much has happened since you left, Sammy… So, so much… I needed you here, and you just weren’t… Why weren’t you here, man? I can’t fucking do this without you… I can’t handle this without you… What am I supposed to do? I’m fucking sick, and there’s no fixing me. I’m fucking sick, and you were supposed to give me that bullshit, ‘It’s okay, man, we’ll get through this together,’ speech. Why did you leave me, Sammy? Just tell me why.” Dean was rambling, his voice thick with all the pain and alcohol and sadness he harbored.

“Dean, I’m here now, okay? Where are you? I’ll go meet you. We can spend Christmas drinking beers and working jobs. Sound good? Just tell me where you are.”

“No, you know what? Fuck you. Goodbye, Sam.” Dean’s tone sent shivers coursing down Sam’s spine. The coldness, the deadness, the finality, the ambiguity of it. To say that Sam was panicking was an understatement.

“Dean? Dean, wait!” But it was too late. The line went dead. Dean was gone, leaving Sam with mounds of questions and a chilling sense of overwhelming, all-consuming terror in his bones. His first instinct was, of course, to call back. But, as he’d predicted, the call went straight to Dean’s voicemail. He needed to get to him, fast.

Sam rushed back inside to grab his coat and search for Brady to let him know where he’d be. He scanned the crowd feverishly, spotting everyone but Brady.

“Hey.” Sam looked down to see that same blond―Jess―handing his jacket to him.

“Hey, Jess, do you know where someone named Brady might be?”

“Oh, so I’m not Jake anymore?” She crossed her arms, causing her breasts to perk up more than they previously were. Sam didn’t care enough to notice.

“I’m sorry, but this is really important. I have to go, and I don’t want him worried over me.”

“Why don’t you just call him? Or text?” She offered, her unauthentic anger falling away after seeing the urgent terror in Sam’s movements, no doubt.

“He doesn’t have his phone. Never uses it when he’s drinking, at least. That is, until he’s ready to go,” Sam said, still scanning the crowd.

“Do you have a car?” She asked.

“We took Brady’s,” He answered, unsure why she’d asked. His mind was too preoccupied by Dean… Dean, Dean, Dean…

“Okay, let’s go. We’ll worry about this Brady kid later. For now, we have to get you where you need to go,” She began pulling him out by his wrist, “but you have to explain everything in the car.”


	2. An Unexpected Reunion

The ride to Sam’s dorm was excruciatingly long. His leg bounced furiously and incessantly. Could this girl drive any slower?

Sam could only focus on Dean. Why didn’t he have some sort of tracker on him? It was juvenile of Sam, and something only Dad would do, but right about now he regretted not following his Dad’s extreme measures. Speaking of Dad, should he call him? Was Dad with Dean? Would he care? Would he answer? If he did, would he even give Sam enough time to explain himself before he began picking another fight? Sam felt anger bubbling in his chest at the thought; _of course_ Dad would pick a fight. He was Dad after all, and he’d do anything to argue with Sam it seemed.

“What is it?” Jess cut through the thick silence. The question floated like that, as an interruption to the quiet, sitting among them in the air, before Sam realized that it was a question that required an answer.

“’s my brother,” Sam mumbled. He and Dean both did that when they were upset, tired, or deep in thought―they didn’t completely pronounce certain words, and instead, they added a long enunciation on the other words. Their accents were thicker and much more prominent in times like this, the drawl sometimes making their words indecipherable.

“What about him?” Jess asked, keeping her eyes on the road. She tried (and failed) to drain any and all emotion from her voice, keeping her eyes glued to the road, only momentarily glancing at Sam when he took too long to answer her question, which was more often than not.

I think he’s in trouble,” Sam spoke the words through his teeth, chewing on the inside of his mouth as he did so. Saying the words aloud made it all too real. The ever-widening pit in his chest became a black hole, sucking every good thought right out of him.

“What kind of trouble?” Jess knew she was treading on dangerous ground here; Sam could tell by the way she kept her interest withdrawn, and her voice carefully neutral. This was only further proven when he tensed up, and Jess glanced over; he saw it in her eyes.

“I-I think he might… god,” Sam hissed as he felt the raw fear clogging his throat and causing the tears to spring to his eyes. He managed to keep in the tears and most of the fear from spilling out; the only thing that escaped was a whispered, “fuck,” from his quivering lips.

“Hey,” Jess cooed, and then her hand moved from the wheel to rest lightly on Sam’s leg, “you don’t have to say it, okay?”

Sam took a measuring look at her profile, and after a moment, her eyes met his briefly before turning back to the road. And in that briefness, that concern flashed in her eyes, bright and raw and strong as ever and all too _real._ Sam flinched. Jess offered a reassuring squeeze on his thigh and began to retract her hand, but Sam wasn’t having it. He placed his hand on hers, pushing it back down. He threaded his fingers through hers, muttering a hoarse, “I need this,” when Jess threw him a wildly confused glance. She nodded after scanning his facial expression, allowing her hand to relax in his. Sam couldn’t help but noticing how perfectly her delicate fingers were embodied by his. Her hands were soft, like silk, which reminded Sam of the too-large robe of Dad’s that he used to wear. He remembered how, at first, the sight was adorably humorous to Dad and Dean, who took one good look at Sam and burst into laughter, the kind that reached their tired eyes. And they looked at each other with their laughing eyes and laughed some more at the ridiculous happiness in each other. Sam felt accomplished then―it was one of the only times that he made his family laugh that way―so he kept on doing it. It got old quickly, as it always seems to do with the Winchesters (they can never be happy for too long), and eventually all Sam got was a short look, a snort, or an eye roll. Eventually, it was Dad who said, “Sam, put on some pajamas for once, would you?” Dean’s eyes were apologetic and sympathetic as Sam sulked over to grab different clothes. He later told his little brother that he still thought it was funny, but Sam knew he was lying, because his eyes no longer laughed when he saw the robe overwhelming Sam’s tiny figure.

“This right?” Jess’s voice abruptly ended Sam’s nostalgic flashback. Sam realized he was more clutching Jess’s hand than holding it now, and he quickly let go. Her hand remained on his leg a moment more before returning to her lap.

He looked up at the dorms and, yeah, this was his. He nodded stiffly once and got out of the car without a word. Jess seemed to understand, as she followed suit, her short legs working double time to keep up with Sam’s wide gait. He was in a rush to get back to his room. He had to activate Dean’s tracker on his phone. He had to get to him.

When Sam got to his door, however, he knew that activating the tracker on Dean’s phone would be useless, because Dean’s phone was peeking through the bag hanging from Sam’s doorknob along with a note. He picked it up and read it.

_All good. Don’t come looking. Dean._

Dean didn’t have to sign his name at the end; Sam would’ve known by the preciseness of Dean’s scrawling letters that it was his brother.

“What’s that?” Jess’s head poked from around Sam, trying to get a look at it. Sam tensed as her hand touched his to turn the note toward herself. He didn’t like this. He needed her out. Now.

“You should go.” It was a mumble at first. Sam dug in his jean pocket for his room key.

“Wh-what?” Jess was hurt.

“I don’t need your help anymore,” Sam said, turning the key in the lock. It clicked, but didn’t budge when Sam turned the knob. He had to shoulder the door open. He stepped inside, not inviting Jess in.

“Thank you for the ride, Jake.” Sam said it intentionally this time, offering a weak smile with it, so as to deter as much of the rejection she might have felt, “See you around.” The door was already shut when Jess called out a parting phrase. As soon as he was within the safety of his room, he allowed his face to show the defeat he felt. He needed a beer. He needed Dean.

Sam promised himself something then―he would look for Dean, even if he knew it wouldn’t produce helpful results. He would search to the ends of the Earth for his brother, for as long as it took, until he found him.

-

Sam knew that today was going to be a good one from the moment he woke up. He knew whenever he opened his eyes and the room was bright. He knew from the way he looked around and Jess was already out with a friend for coffee. He knew from the way his heart felt lighter than usual, more determined. He knew from the text Brady sent Sam while he was sleeping, one saying, “Had fun last night. When can we hang out again?” He knew from the way his laptop was already by his bed, and he could simply grab it and open it up, first checking his email, then setting to work looking for Dean.

Sam didn’t know why it happened. He didn’t know why Dean chose then to contact him. He didn’t know what caused it. All he knew is that he received a call amidst all his searching. And the caller ID was unknown, but a part of Sam knew. He just _knew_ that it was Dean. He scrambled to grab his phone and answer the call.

“Hello?” Sam was breathless. Anxious.

“Sam,” Dean spoke confidently, nonchalantly, but Sam saw past it. He heard the slightest edge in Dean’s voice, buried under the façade he was displaying. Something was wrong. But he looked past it for now, because it was _Dean_ , and he was okay.

“Dean?” Sam couldn’t hide the giddiness from showing in his voice.

“Yeah,” He paused for a moment before saying, “Long time, brother.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Sam deadpanned, “Why’d you call?”

“I can’t call just to talk?” Dean sounded hurt, offended for a moment.

“We both know that that’s not why you called,” Sam said, “You dropped off the face of the Earth for a year and a half man; you’re not just gonna resurface to say hey to your little brother.”

“No worries. I’ll see you tonight, Sammy.”

That was it. Nothing else. Brief and vague as possible. Nothing more than that. There was a slight smile on Dean’s face, Sam could tell by the sound in his voice. Dean was doing everything in his power to be as elusive as possible, evading Sam’s questions, dismissing him with a simple, “See you tonight.” This told Sam that Dean was going to meet him at some point in the day, which meant that Sam would have to be on high alert for his brother.

-

Sam had a meeting with Jess’s dads today. He was going to pick up the ring from Jess’s grandmother that he intended to propose to her with. He’d already asked permission to marry her, so now it was only a waiting game; waiting for her parents to retrieve the ring to give to Sam. Choosing the right time to ask Jess. Waiting for the wedding. And now, Sam had to wait for his brother to make his big debut for the first time in two years.

Sam didn’t exactly spot his brother anywhere throughout the first half of the day, but that didn’t mean that his brain didn’t create figments of Dean everywhere he went. He saw Dean in the way a man walked. He saw Dean in a man’s accent or tone of voice. He saw Dean in every green jacket, in every extra layer of clothing. He saw Dean in every bowlegged gait. He saw Dean in every perfect-toothed smile. He saw Dean in every dusty blond-haired man. He saw Dean in every pair of green eyes. He saw Dean in every old car. Dean was everywhere, but Dean was nowhere. And that drove Sam crazy.

-

Sam swore he actually saw Dean this time. Every time he turned around and scanned the perimeter of the place where the Halloween party was being held, though, his suspicions proved fruitless. When he turned around to converse with Jess and Brady (who kept trying to catch Sam’s eye and relay some sort of message), the feeling of being watched returned. It put Sam off, made him distant and distracted. If Jess or Brady noticed, they decided against calling him out.

One time, when he turned around, he spotted him―a man fitting Dean’s profile just averting his gaze from Sam and stepping into the shadows. Sam excused himself abruptly. Jess eyed him suspiciously, but said nothing. And then he was off, going on what was probably a wild goose chase, yet again.

The man was turning to walk away now that Sam was tailing him, shoving his hands in the pocket of his coat. Sam couldn’t tell what color it was, but it looked… green. Sam’s heart sped up. Sam noticed the familiar gait, the short, gelled hair, the bow legs. He followed without much other thought except getting closer. And, when the man cut a sharp turn into a darkened area. Sam was able to catch it and follow. Sam had him cornered now.

He slowly, cautiously approached the man he suspected to be his brother, still vaguely aware of the familiarity of him, but not allowing himself to hope too much. He got closer and closer until the smell of him unexpectedly greeted Sam’s nose―hair gel, masculinity, and a certain black ’67 Impala that could only be described as _Dean_. He ever-pounding heart rose to his throat. Those shockingly emerald eyes that were illuminated dimly by the sparse amount of light in the room, but just right so that Sam could decipher them as Dean’s. The lined scar on his nose. Those lips. The hair. Sam was so surprised that he stumbled back a couple steps. He regained his composure just long enough to breathe out, “Dean.”

It only took a moment for Dean to grab him by his shirt and pull him outside through a back door that Sam hadn’t even noticed. He couldn’t see Dean much better out here, couldn’t decide just how much Dean’s appearance had changed since he last saw him, but it was quieter out here.

“Sam,” Dean said, his expression grave and emotions carefully guarded. Any traces of the nonchalance Dean had earlier was gone now; Dean’s emotions were carefully guarded.

“Dean.” Sam said it again, as if that would make it any realer for him. He was relieved at the sound of his brother’s voice. His shoulders slacked. The adrenaline from earlier drained. His body burned with the need to pull him in for a hug, but judging Dean’s demeanor and the conversation they’d had earlier, he wasn’t here on his own accord. He had a reason―a big one. Sam didn’t realize just how massive the reason when on the phone with Dean, because he couldn’t see the way Dean was all wound up and trying so hard to hide his emotions.

“What is it?” Sam asked after studying Dean for a moment. Did he always look so serious?

“Dad’s gone,” Dean explained as vaguely as possible. Sam always hated that. Why did he have to ask for elaboration constantly? Why couldn’t Dean just automatically explain himself fully?

“Dad’s always gone.” Sam’s voice was coarse―a walkway of angry embers. The mention of Dad sent him on edge. _Of course_ that’s why Dean was here. Always Dad. But, why now? Dad was always leaving Dean for days or sometimes weeks at a time. And he always came back.

“No, Sam. I mean gone. He hasn’t been home in a few days.” In Dean talk, a few days meant at least two or three weeks. Dad never went on a hunt for that long.

“Have you tried calling?” Sam asked, even though he knew the answer. Of course Dean called. He would’ve called every day until Dad’s voicemail was full.

“Of course, Sammy,” Dean was getting annoyed, “Who do you think I am? You?”

That one hurt. It hit Sam like a ton of bricks. He’d been searching for so long for Dean, yet here he was, making Sam feel bad for not contacting him. As if it’d been so easy for Sam to find him. As if he was disappointed in Sam for not finding him first. Sam had tried everything; he’d even sucked up his pride and tried phoning Dad a couple times. But, apparently, Dad didn’t tell Dean that small detail.

“This isn’t about me, Dean,” He sighed.

“Yes, Sam, it is. Because had you been there, maybe he wouldn’t have―” Dean’s words fell abruptly. It surprised Sam to realize the amount of self-loathing Dean must’ve felt to believe that Dad would’ve stayed if Sam was there.

“He would’ve left whether I was there or not,” Sam tired. His words were weak. Even he didn’t believe them. Even if Dad would’ve left when Sam was around, Sam would be too damned stubborn to allow him to leave without getting answers as to where he was going or for how long. Dean looked up at Sam after he said that, trying to get a read on him. Then, his eyes turned hard, vindictive. Dean couldn’t hide his emotions anymore, and Sam reveled in the first real emotion Dean had since he’d gotten here.

“That’s a lie, and you damn well know it.”

“God, Dean, did you just come here to throw a pity party? Almost two years since I’ve heard anything from you, and _this_ is how you greet me?” The words were out of Sam’s mouth before he could tuck them away. Dean’s face turned guilty. Sam’s stomach wrenched. How could he be so conceited?

A thick silence tainted the air around them. Sam watched as Dean shuffled uncomfortably under his burning gaze. All Sam wanted was to wrap Dean in a hug and squeeze all of the self-hatred out of him.

“Dean,” Sam ducked to catch Dean’s line of sight. Dean did, and his eyes remained on his brother’s as Sam said, “It’s good to see you.”

Sam swore he saw the edges of Dean’s mouth twitch upwards. Sam took it as a sign of passage, so, at this most inappropriate time, he closed the space between himself and his brother and tackled him in a hug. Dean froze. Froze for so long that Sam was contemplating withdrawing and leaving Dean without another word. Then, Dean’s arms slowly, stiffly, and timidly snaked around him. Sam patted Dean’s back and tightened his grip. He felt Dean’s tenseness melting away under his embrace. He leaned into Sam, his face nuzzling into the crook of his neck and his arms patting Sam’s back. This was Sam’s Dean.

Even as Sam said this to himself, he didn’t believe it. There was something different about this Dean. He didn’t fully meld their bodies together as he did when they so rarely hugged. He didn’t wrap his arms as tightly as Sam did. And he pulled away too quickly. This _wasn’t_ Sam’s Dean. Something was off; he didn’t fully trust Sam as he used to. Didn’t trust Sam to not run away at the first chance he got. This was all wrong. But Sam knew he couldn’t say anything. Not if he wanted to maintain the peace. So, as much as it pained him, he kept his mouth shut.

“Where was he headed?” Sam asked. And, just as it used to be, Sam followed Dean to his Impala, to talk about a hunt.

-

Sam had to find Jess. Had to talk to her. So, when he rushed back into the party and didn’t see her, he panicked slightly. Where was she? Brady was missing too. Sam resorted to calling, and his heart fell when there was no answer. He tried Brady. Straight to voicemail. Where could they have gone? But Sam didn’t have time to worry himself over it; Dean was waiting, and his mood was already sour from Sam’s insistence on finding Jess before he left. So, with a heavy heart and a bad feeling wrenching his gut, Sam trudged outside. He walked past Dean, who was leaned against the outside wall with his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He said nothing to his brother, instead heading straight for the Impala. Dean followed.

-

The ride to Jericho was mostly sat through in stiff silence―the kind that was mad awkward by a cough or shuffling or any interruption really. Interruptions like speaking were enough to startle, so they kept it to a minimum. Sam was grateful, as he had no idea what to say to Dean.

“You serious?” The voice was Dean’s―conversational words, but the edge to them was hard.

“What?” Sam was taken back by the passive harshness of Dean’s tone.

“Jenn and you, were you two serious?” Sam would have smiled at that. He would have gone on a long-winded ramble about her. Would’ve mentioned the ring, maybe even shown it. But he didn’t. Because Dean said the wrong name. He said the wrong name, and this _was_ Dean by the way. He could never react this way without being called gay.

“Yeah,” was Sam’s short response. Casual. Guarded. But for Dean, it wouldn’t suffice.

“Yeah? Sammy, be forward. Tell me more than just ‘yeah.’ Do you love her? Is she the one? You wanna have those four and a half kids and a dog with her? C’mon, man.”

“It’s Sam,” was the only answer Dean got. No more, just that.

“What’s your deal, man?” Dean bit back, casting a demeaning glance his way. But Sam wouldn’t say. The reason was adolescent; the stuff of their youth.

“Hello? Earth to Sam?” Dean said, his voice impatient.

“Why do you always act so condescending about what I want out of life?” Sam burst, his voice angry and accusing, “After the childhood we had, what’s so wrong with wanting a ‘normal apple pie life’? Why can’t we just be _normal?_ ” Sam huffed and slumped in his seat. There it was again, the silence. Sam thought Dean wouldn’t answer. Then, out of nowhere, he did.

“It’s our job, Sammy―”

“It’s Sam.”

“―and we have to do this. It’s the family business. Our legacy. We have to carry it on. We have to protect people. _Save_ people.” Dean’s voice was softer now. But it took on a more determined tone when he went on to say, “And kill as many evil sons of bitches, the thing that killed Mom included, as we possibly can.”

“Why are you still holding onto that?” Sam blurted, anger pumping wildly through his veins, “I don’t even _remember_ Mom, Dean. Why does it have to be our job to save everyone?"

Dean didn’t have an answer to that. Sam could tell by the way his eyes flitted rapidly about, looking everywhere outside his windshield, anything to keep him from looking at Sam. This heightened Sam’s already boiling anger. Then, when Dean whispered in a hoarse voice, “That’s just the way it is, Sammy,” Sam was edging on rage.

“It’s _Sam,_ ” He growled, then continued, “and take me home. I want to go home.”

Something about Sam’s voice must have alarmed Dean, because that was when he finally looked at Sam. Sam could feel it, and as he brewed in his rage, he waited for Dean to say something to push him further. But he didn’t. It was silent, for a long time. Songs came and went on the low-volume radio, and Sam’s anger wouldn’t dissipate; that is, until Dean finally spoke.

“I’m sorry,” He choked. His voice was weak, sad desperate. It was the most heartbreaking sound he’d ever heard from Dean. And, just when he thought this was the hardest thing he’d have to hear from his brother, Dean went on, “I can’t lose you, Sammy.” Sam didn’t correct him this time.


	3. Hunts and Heartbreaks

At the sound of Dean’s broken voice, Sam’s heart swelled. His anger fled, as if Dean’s words had snuffed out any proof of its existence. Instead the anger was replaced by sympathy, by concern, by an overwhelming need to protect Dean, to make sure he was okay.

“Dean, I―” What could Sam say to make Dean feel okay? How could he console his obviously damaged brother? “I’m sorry too.”

Dean’s head turned to eye Sam warily. Sam looked back at Dean, his eyes sad and showing his overwhelming willingness to help at Dean’s first hint of needing it, and Sam saw the tears shimmering in his brother’s eyes under the streetlights passing. The tears didn’t fall, though; they never did with Dean. That would be too vulnerable, too trusting, too susceptible to harm, for Dean. But, with the line of work Dean was involved in, he had to be strong, had to keep his walls up at all times.

Dean’s eyes searched his for a moment, then he averted his gaze as if Sam’s eyes had struck him. He maneuvered his body so that it was positioned as far away from Sam as possible. When Sam kept on eyeing his brother, Dean bit out a harsh, “Stop starin’ at me like I’m some kinda wounded puppy. I don’t need sympathy, especially not from you.” The tears were still lining his eyes.

“Dean,” Sam almost whispered it, placing a careful, timid hand on Dean’s forearm. Dean jerked under the sudden touch, and Sam instantly removed his hand. Dean looked alarmingly, wildly, angrily at Sam then back to the road so quickly that Sam almost missed it. “Dean, I’m not leaving tonight, okay?”

Dean’s whole body physically relaxed at that moment. He repositioned himself so he wasn’t so far away from Sam a couple minutes later, and Sam was ready to breathe a sigh of relief when Dean suddenly tensed up again. He built up his walls around his emotions again. His eyes turned hard, empty. The relief Sam had previously felt evaporated into thin air.

“No,” Dean protested, “you want to go back to Wussy State, I’ll take you back.”

Sam went into a panic at the deadness that coated Dean’s voice with an edge meant to cut Sam. And it did. It sent Sam on high alert; Dean only did this when he was hiding intense emotions that he thought he couldn’t show. And that made Sam all the more eager to push Dean into these emotions.

“I don’t want to go back, not right now,” Sam said, “I was just angry when I said that. And, besides, we need to find Dad.” Sam knew this would set Dean off.

“Since when do you give a rat’s ass about Dad?” Dean sneered, trying desperately to keep his voice unchanged, but Sam could see the emotions he’d been fishing for seeping through his brother’s levelheaded façade.

“I’ve _always_ cared about Dad, and you know that. So, what? Now that I’ve gone off to college, I’m not allowed to care about my family anymore?” Sam asked, allowing himself to delve in his own repressed anger that was building right back up from where it left off before Dean’s outburst.

“No, you’re not! You proved to us how much you really ‘cared’ about this family the moment you walked out that door! We needed you, Sam! I needed you!” Dean was shouting then, gripping the steering wheel more tightly, his knuckles turning white. His eyebrows furrowed, creating that crease between them. His eyes were fiery and blazing with the anger bubbling inside him. His lips were set in a slight angry pout. Sam watched his brother as he responded.

“Do you honestly think that just because I left to follow my own dreams that I don’t care about you? Dad’s the one who told me to leave, Dean! And he’s left us plenty of times before, but I don’t see you treating him like this! Why am I always the one to get the cold shoulder, when Dad does the same things on many, many more occasions?” Sam was left breathless after this, but he made himself go on to say something he knew he’d regret, “And where is Dad now, Dean? Gone! He _left_ you, Dean, and you’re not even mad about it!”

Dean was silent, tight-lipped and silently raging. He didn’t know what to say, Sam could tell. Either that or he was too winded by Sam’s words that he couldn’t think straight. Sam reveled in this small victory for a moment, then allowed himself a moment to calm down before he said something else he’d regret. He needed to end this argument before Dean actually decided to take him back to Stanford.

“Look, Dean,” He finally said, “I understand you’re not happy that I left you, but you don’t have to constantly be an ass about it. I said I wasn’t leaving, due to _your_ pleas, might I add, and I’m not leaving, so stop trying to push me away, okay? We have a job to do, so let’s get it done.”

Dean remained quiet, and he said nothing for the remainder of the drive to their destination. Sam tried many times to get Dean talking, by asking things like, “So, where are we headed?” or asking him what the song on the radio was, to no avail. Not even a grunt in response. It was as if Sam wasn’t even there. And Sam wanted to get angry, wanted to shout at Dean because of how adolescent he was being, wanted to set Dean off again, but he knew that that would be yet another reckless and stupid decision, and he’s had enough of those tonight. So, he clamped his mouth shut, wanting anything but another fight that ended in hurting Dean again. He swallowed his rising anger. He rode with his brother in silence, the only sound being the familiar hum of the Impala and the music coming from it. So, with no idea where they were headed, and no idea what it would hold, Sam allowed himself to be driven into the night, and into the rest of his life.

-

Turns out, their destination was a quaint little town called Jericho in California. When Dean pulled up to a bridge littered with police officers and crime scene tape, Sam didn’t ask questions. And, they didn’t speak much, not directly, at least. Not until after their first encounter with their Woman in White (which they didn’t know she was at the time), that is, and Sam told Dean that he smelled like a toilet. Dean rolled his eyes in response and told Sam to shut up, but his expression lightened then, and it stayed that way for a while (until they accidentally stumbled upon Dad’s motel room). He decided to start talking to Sam again, and Sam was grateful, as he couldn’t handle Dean staying angry at him. He’d missed his brother too much.

When they walked into Dad’s disorganized motel room, it was as if Sam was jerked back into the past. News clippings and research covered nearly every square inch of the place. Old food was lying around, half-eaten and stinking up the place. The painful, bitter wave of nostalgia that coursed through Sam’s body made him shudder.

They meandered about the room, skimming through the pieces of paper all over the walls, searching for whatever would pique their interests. Then, Sam saw it―the reason Dad was here, the reason they were here now. Sam shook his head, half in awestruck shock at the brilliance of their father, and half in anger that Dad figured it out first. He called Dean’s attention to it, and that was when they knew just what they were dealing with.

Dean kept pleasantries to a minimum. He’d only show himself, the real Dean, for a moment before putting back on his playful, coy mask. It made Sam’s stomach flip unpleasantly, because Dean felt like he couldn’t truly be himself around his own brother, and that was Sam’s fault.

Soon enough, Dean was in the shower cleaning the toilet-scented muck off his body, and Sam was left with his thoughts, and a room full of Dad’s stuff. His eyes roamed aimlessly about, until something caught his eye―a photo lodged into the mirror. Sam grabbed it and took a long look at it. Sam found himself smiling as the pad of his thumb ran fondly over Dean’s young face. He didn’t remember this day, but it didn’t stop the nostalgia from setting in once again. He missed his family and the way they used to be.

He called Jess again, but there was no answer. He was midway through leaving her a message when Dean sauntered out of the bathroom with only a towel hung low on his hips. Sam turned toward the sound of his brother’s movements, and it was hard not to notice the extra muscle Dean now sported. It wasn’t that way before, was it? Sam watched his brother’s back muscles ripple as he grabbed clothes from his bag and hurriedly began to pull them on.

“Take a picture; it’ll last longer,” Dean remarked as he shouldered on a shirt and began to button it. And, although his words were teasing, his tone was just the opposite. Sam’s eyes trailed up to Dean’s, and he saw the many things his brother was trying to desperately to hide―the pain, the loneliness, and, was Dean feeling self-conscious?

“Have you been working out?” Sam found himself asking.

“What? No,” Dean was lying, “When would I even find the time between jobs to work out?”

“Aww, Dean-o, there’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Sam chuckled, “You look good.” He smiled goofily at his brother.

“Alright, alright, enough of that,” Dean’s face was red, “And wipe that stupid smile off your face.”

“Jerk.”

“Bitch.” And, after Dean said that, Sam knew that it was going to be alright between them. They were family, and family can overcome anything. Right?

-

It was an easy end. Much too quickly for Sam’s preference, but he’d never admit that. And, now, even as he packed beside his brother, he felt as though they were a million miles away from one another. Sam already missed Dean, and he hadn’t even stepped back onto the Stanford campus yet.

“I’m sorry,” Sam wanted to say.

“I won’t leave,” He wanted to say.

“I missed you,” He wanted to say.

“Please, Dean, look at me. Talk to me,” He wanted to say.

But he didn’t. Instead he silently threw his clothes into his bag beside his brother. And he hadn’t felt this alone is a long time―not since his first night at Stanford.

The rise back went by just as quickly as the hunt. Before Sam could completely comprehend it, he was back at his apartment, and Dean was looking at him expectantly.

“If you need me for another hunt, you know where I’ll be,” Sam spoke through the silence that consumed them. It was the kind of silence that was heavy with goodbyes, with longing. It made Sam’s heart ache; his made his head cloudy.

“I’ll let you know if I hear somethin’ about Dad.” Dean’s voice was gruff. Sam shied away at the sound of it.

“I’ll see you.” And with that, Sam forced himself out of the car. Because, if he stayed a moment longer, he wouldn’t be capable of leaving. As Sam turned to walk away from his brother for god knows how long, Dean called, “Hey, Sammy!”

Sam stopped in his tracks―an instinctual action he’d acquired over the years when Dean called him like that. Sam spun around on his heel, just in time to see Dean offer a weak smile and say, “Good luck, Jerk.” Sam wanted to ask with what, but he didn’t. Instead, he muttered a, “Bitch,” through his sad smile and walked away.

-

She was burning. Her blond hair shriveled around the red flames as they gained momentum and burned through it. Sam’s eyes looked into hers―unblinking and empty and mocking and _knowing_ ―and his body lay unresponsive. When her face began to burn away, that’s when Sam started screaming. “Jess, oh god, Jess!”

-

**DEAN**

It shouldn’t have mattered that Sam left his hoodie in the backseat of the Impala, but it did. It shouldn’t have mattered, because Dean knew that Sam had more at his apartment, and he’d seen Sam wearing another one. And maybe it was just Dean wanting to see his brother just once more before he left him for good, or maybe it was because Dean just needed every morsel of Sam _away_ from him as quickly as possible, but he found himself turning around and heading back for his brother’s place, the coat lying in his lap.

The sight of Sam’s apartment from where Dean was made his heart drop. There was smoke blazing through the windows, and Dean heard faint screaming. _Sam._

Dean ran to Sam’s door as quickly as he could, finding it unlocked, and he burst through what he assumed to be his bedroom, where the source of the fire was. The door was locked. He had to kick through it in order to get to his brother, who was still screaming at the ceiling, tears running down his cheeks and a drop of blood on his forehead. Dean rushed forward, yanking his brother up and taking him out of the room. Sam was dazed, and it took a moment for his feet to respond, but he was carrying himself out, murmuring indecipherable words that Dean didn’t want to understand. He’d seen enough of what happened―a charred body still burning on the ceiling, and Sam…

-

**SAM**

The tears were pouring by the time Sam felt Dean’s arms wrap around him. He couldn’t remember whether he dragged him out or whether Sam voluntarily walked out, but either way, they somehow ended up in the Impala, coughing the smoke and sulfur from their lungs. What was happening?

Dean’s expression was erratic and panicked when he looked at Sam again. The expression unsettled him more than it should have, but he just watched his girlfriend burning on the ceiling. Whatever hysteria his brother’s gaze incited on Sam was justified.

“Sam?” Dean said, “Sammy? Are you okay? Are you hurt?” His voice was at a level of panic Sam wasn’t used to hearing. Dean was usually calm in times like this. Sam _needed_ him to be calm.

“No, no…” Sam couldn’t think straight; _had_ he been injured? He couldn’t remember. “Jess… It got Jess.”

Then, as though he was a recently oiled machine, Dean became unwaveringly calm.

“I know it did, Sammy, and we’re gonna find the bastard, okay?” He placed a hand on Sam’s shoulder, but Sam flinched away, burling into a tight ball at the edge of his seat, as close to the door as possible.

“Need Jess,” He mumbled, “Want Jess.”

Dean’s hand rested in his lap now, and he was a solemn statue. Sam didn’t notice Dean’s sniffling over his own.

-

Why did the police always ask so many hard questions? They kept making Sam cry. One after the other asking all the things that made Sam’s stomach wrench. Dean wanted to come with Sam, was practically begging him to let him at least be by Sam while the police grilled him, but Sam was having none of it. So, Dean waited (pouted) in the Impala. Right about now, when all the questions bombarded and overwhelmed him, he wished he had allowed Dean along. Dean would’ve already told every one of them to fuck off, or he would’ve already started swinging. Sam couldn’t think.

“She was _where_?”

“I told you. I thought she was in the shower.”

“Was she bleeding?

“I―”

“Were there any clear injuries?

“I don’t―I can’t remember.”

“Did she call for help?”

“Was she already gone when you found her?”

“Do you know if she had any enemies?”

“I-I have to go.” Sam didn’t care that they would probably be suspicious of him if he left right then, but he couldn’t take it. He needed Dean. When he got back, Sam practically fell into the car. Dean automatically went into defense mode.

“What happened? Sammy, are you okay, man?” He asked, and Sam felt his brother’s eyes scanning him up and down. All Sam wanted was to hug his brother.

“Dean,” He said brokenly, “can you…?” His voice faltered after that.

“What do you need?”

“Just, please, take me somewhere where I can shower and sleep.”

And, with as much haste as he could muster, Dean gunned the engine and sped out of there.

-

Sam can’t remember the name of the motel. He can’t remember the color of the walls or the bathroom or the pattern of the comforter. All he remembers from that motel is Dean.

And, for some reason, Sam was on the floor. Sam was on the floor, and water was weakly splattering against his hair and eyes. His knees were drawn to his chest. He couldn’t move. How long had it been

“Sam.” There was a light rap on the door. Dean.

“Dean,” Sam whispered, and he knew Dean wouldn’t hear him.

“Sammy?” His voice was louder, more urgent, and he knocked harder on the door. Sam couldn’t bring himself to speak.

“Sam, can I come in?” Nothing left Sam’s lips, even though he willed himself to speak.

“I’m coming in, okay?” _Okay,_ Sam thought, _Please help me, Dean._

Dean was at his side before Sam could count to 60, his mouth moving, but not much of the words coming out of it registered in Sam’s brain.

“Hey, Sam, you okay?” He asked, his voice laced with parent-like concern. Now that, Sam could understand. Dean’s hands were getting wet, so he rolled up his shirtsleeves. Then, he was touching Sam, moving his hair back from his face. His voice was soft, soothing. It hardly sounded like Dean.

“What are you doing, man?” He said it mostly to himself, not expecting an answer, which Sam was grateful for, because he didn’t have an answer, “Let’s get you dried off and dressed, okay?”

Sam allowed himself to be lifted from the shower, or he tried to, at least. Dean couldn’t get a good grip on his wet body. He kept saying softly, “C’mon, Sammy, we gotta get you cleaned up.” Eventually, Sam’s legs complied for long enough to step out of the shower and sit on the yellowing toilet. Dean smiled sadly. It looked more like a grimace to Sam.

Dean toweled him off, and Sam watched his brother’s body move methodically as he did so. Sam looked into his brother’s eyes. Dean smiled weakly at him, again. Did his face hurt? He said, “Feeling better?” as he rubbed the towel on his brother’s back, wrapping it around him after. The words were quiet, only meant for Sam to hear. He tried to speak, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so. The emotions were clogging his throat. So, he just shook his head. Dean’s eyes grew sadder.

“You will, in time,” He promised. In his eyes Sam saw all the blind faith his brother had for him. All the love. All the unwavering trust. Sam couldn’t look away from it, even though he so desperately wanted to. He nodded. Went to grab a pair of sweats for Sam to wear. They were only a little short for Sam.

When Dean was pulling a hoodie over his head―the one that was left in Dean’s car―Sam finally found it in him to speak. “She was beautiful.” His voice sounded wrong; it was foreign, gruff, desperate, sad. It wasn’t Sam’s. It was uncontrolled and full of raw emotion that Sam couldn’t process.

“Tell me about her?” Dean offered, not looking at Sam as he worked his arms through the sleeves.

“She―I was going to ask her to marry me,” Sam choked, unable to get out more than that. Dean stopped his actions, Sam’s left hand halfway through the sleeve, and he looked up at him. Sam’s eyes were tearing over and burning. His throat ached with emotion. Dean’s eyes were soft. Sam pulled his hand through the sleeve.

“Sammy,” He said. Just that. Then, the dam broke within Sam. He was crying again. Dean was quick to act, pulling Sam into a welcoming embrace. His hand was unmoving at the nape of Sam’s neck, and the other was around his mid-back. He didn’t say anything until Sam did.

“I-I didn’t save her,” Sam cried.

“Shh,” Dean cooed.

“I should’ve been there.”

“Shh.”

“She needed me.”

“I know.”

“Why did this happen?”

“Shh, Sammy, it’s okay.”

“Okay.”

Then, with the exclusion of Sam’s wracking sobs, all was quiet. Sam can’t remember how he got into bed.

-

Sam’s eyes shoot open, and he’s brought immediately upright: Jess. He had to save Jess. Where was she? Her arms were wrapped around him. They were warmer than usual, firmer, and… Was she shaking?

“Sam? Sammy! Are you okay? Can you hear me?” That wasn’t Jess. That wasn’t at all Jess. Sam’s heart began to speed up. Who was that? Sam looked into the person’s eyes, and he saw black. A demon! Sam began thrashing and wriggling under the demon’s grasp.

“Leave me alone!” He shouted, “Get off of me!”

“Sammy!” The demon called, “Sammy, it’s me! It’s Dean!” Sam wouldn’t stop, thought. The demon had to be lying. He’d seen the black eyes for himself. Dean wasn’t a demon. This wasn’t Dean, couldn’t be. Sam knew it. He struggled against the demon’s death grip. He smelled sulfur, but just a trace of it. As if… As if the demon had been here, but not since a long time ago. Another world ago.

Then Sam realized that thing that was now on top of him wasn’t pinning him down; it was clinging onto him for dear life. He stopped fighting; it took a while to convince his body to stop, but he managed to. Grabbed the upper arms of the person so that he could get a look at him. The eyes that stared back at him held no demon and no Jess. They were the eyes of his brother, green as can be and wide in fear. Dean?

“Christo,” Sam choked. Nothing. The eyes stared unblinking, full of trust and full of fear. “Dean?”

“Yeah, it’s me, Sammy,” Dean said, his voice hardly above a whisper. His lips lifted on one side slightly.

“I-I’m so sorry,” Sam managed to say, his words coming in choking breaths. His body was slick with sweat. His breathing was hard and labored. The smell of faint sulfur still lingered in his nostrils.

“Don’t worry about it, man,” Dean said, his voice calmer and his smile a little more genuine. Sam’s tense muscles loosened at the sight of it. His breathing calmed. He leaned into Dean’s arms, his head falling on Dean’s chest. He had no energy to do anything more. Dean’s hands instantly moved to Sam’s hair, pushing it back and rubbing Sam’s back in a soothing gesture. But, for Sam, it wasn’t soothing at all, because Dean’s heart was still pounding. He was scared of Sam.

Eventually, Dean maneuvered Sam to lie back on his bed. Sam, in his sleepy stupor, heard the sheets and comforter ruffling before the blankets were pulled up. He pulled them up to his chin as he got comfortable. Then, Dean’s warmth was gone, and Sam was left alone. How could he sleep now?


	4. Angry Words and Confessions

Dean began to become restless at 7. Sam knew it would be another hour before he was conscious enough to smell the food. Sam should really get more, because the food he’d already gotten was growing cold.

When he came back and walked through the door to let the sunlight pour into the room, Dean groaned. He pulled the blanket over his head and said, “Shut the door, Dad?” His voice held no anger, only a plea. Even in his morning annoyance, he couldn’t disrespect the person he thought was his father.

“Hey,” Sam said instead, shutting the door. The blankets ruffled, and then Dean’s disheveled head of hair popped up from under them. His eyes were swollen from silently crying when he thought Sam was asleep. But Sam wasn’t, and he’d heard the quiet sniffles.

“Sammy?” He asked, his voice hopeful.

“It’s Sam,” He responded with a soft, sad smile, “I got breakfast… a couple times.”

Dean’s sleepy eyes rolled over the bags of now cold food Sam had gotten. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Why’d you get so much?”

“The food kept getting cold because you slept for longer than I’d expected, so I got you more. I know you don’t like cold food.” Sam was ashamed now, for some reason. Why’d he get so much?

“Okay,” Dean said slowly, then crawled out of bed, “But, you know we have a microwave, Sam?”

“It’s not as good when it’s heated up,” Sam recited, “You said that yourself.”

“Okay, well, thanks,” Dean nodded at Sam, “What time did you get up?”

“Couple hours ago,” Sam lied, hoping Dean couldn’t see through him. Sam didn’t sleep at all after his nightmare and after Dean.

“Alright. What’s for grub?” Sam handed him the bag of food he’d just gotten. He watched Dean eat, not touching any of his own food. And, when Dean asked to eat his, Sam let him.

-

Sam wanted to do nothing less than kick and scream and throw a tantrum when Dean made him leave the motel room. He didn’t hesitate to show his distaste either, but that didn’t seem to bother Dean.

“C’mon, Sammy, there’s a whole world out there, and you’re missin’ it,” He said in response to Sam’s complaints, landing a slap on his bare, exposed back. Sam winced but refused to move. So, Dean began pulling on Sam’s arm.

“Get your ass out of bed, you lazy fucked,” He grunted as he attempted to heave Sam out of bed, but he didn’t budge. “If you’re not out of bed in the next minute, I’m gonna start swinging.” And, as if to prove his point, he lightly hit Sam’s shoulder.

“Okay, okay, dammit. You’ll have to wait for me thought.” Dean did, with a soured expression, sulking in a chair pushed against the far wall of the room. This holdup didn’t affect his chipper mood though, for, as soon as Sam was ready to go, he was whistling his way to the car.

-

“Where the hell are we going, Dean?” Sam asked as Dean drove through the progressively deteriorating neighborhoods. Most were abandoned squatter houses now, as nearly none were in an inhabitable condition. Dean quirked a lopsided grin and shook his head. Sam’s eyes remained on the smile that made his brother look both goofy and beautiful at the same time. He’d forgotten how nice it looked on his lips. It made his overwhelming grief dissipate, for a moment. Why couldn’t Dean smile more often? Sam’s lips drew upwards as he watched his brother.

“Dude,” Dean spoke, break Sam from his intense stare, “you gotta stop doing that. Seriously, it creeps me out, man. I mean, I know I’m nice to look at, but you don’t have to stare me down.” He was still smiling.

“You’re so full of yourself,” Dean scoffed, a smile plastered on his lips as well. Dean shook his head.

“Can’t deny what God gave me, Sammy, it would be a sin.” Dean quipped, and Sam rolled his eyes.

“It’s Sam.”

“Okay, _Sammy_.”

Sam breathed a long sigh, then said, “Seriously, man where are we going?” Dean shook his head again.

“Can’t ruin the surprise, _Sammy_ ,” Dean wiggled his eyebrows as he looked Sam’s way momentarily.

“Jerk,” Sam muttered in feigned annoyance.

“Bitch,” Dean answered impulsively, his mouth turning up even more as the words graced his lips. Dean was fully smiling now, his perfectly aligned teeth on display for Sam to see. And, how could Sam be so sad when Dean looked like this?

-

Dean’s smile eventually faded, along with Sam’s temporary happiness. It seemed to turn all too quickly, and Sam was sure Dean could feel it. He was sure Dean could feel the negativity flowing off of Sam in waves, but he said nothing. He said nothing at all, in fact. Instead, he turned up his radio, which was previously quietly blasting Metallica, to an almost deafening roar. He sang along to the songs, something he only did when he was particularly happy. Sam had forgotten how easily he could hide things from his brother. Dean made it all too simple; he didn’t ask questions, didn’t check up on Sam unless absolutely necessary, didn’t have heart to hearts with Sam nearly ever, not on his own accord anyway.

Dean parked the Impala at a small, broken down spot in an abandoned town. The wind sang through the empty and shattered windows of the buildings around them. This building, though, had boarded windows and graffiti wrapping around its entirety, surrounded by cracked pavement that was dominated almost entirely by weeds. Faded lines were painted on on―old parking spots. Sam thought Dean was going to force him to talk. His stomach churned in reproachful unpleasantness.

But, right when Sam thought for sure that Dean was going to ask what was up, he surprised Sam by opening his door and stepping out of the car. He made his way over to the building. And, when Sam didn’t follow, Dean turned around and made a gesture for Sam to follow. Hesitantly and uneasily, Sam followed.

Dean walked all the way to the fenced pool area. Then, he began scaling the fence.

“Dean, man, what are you doing?” Sam sighed, a part of him thinking this was some sort of hunt. Of course Dean would see that as a perfect remedy for Sam’s grief.

“Just shut your trap and follow me, would you?” He retorted, grunting as he heaved himself over. He landed all too gracefully on all fours, then stood to face Sam through the barrier separating them.

“It’s okay, Sammy, I promise. Trust me on this, yeah?” Dean’s voice was soft, pleading. Sam’s glowering aura subsided. He climbed the fence. He said nothing else to Dean. Dean said nothing else to him. They just walked in silence, Dean leading the way around a long dried pool to the back entrance of the building.

Dean pulled out his lock pick and began working. Sam hunkered over him, shielding him from the bright sun. It was cold today, but not too cold. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Sam didn’t like it.

Within a span of a minute, Dean was shoving open the door. Behind the door was a small check-in area. This was an old motel. Dean coughed as the unsettled dust spun about, tickling his nose. He walked around for a bit, then led Sam right back outside to where the rooms were. He took a staircase up to the second level of rooms, and Sam followed.

Room 207. That’s where Dean stopped. He picked the lock. Walked inside. The room was vaguely familiar, but Sam blamed that on the similarity of all motel rooms. They all had a basic layout, the same old, rotting bathtubs and yellowed sinks and toilets, stained carpets, among other things. But this particular room itched at something in Sam’s distant memory. But, the sheets were stripped―everything was. All that was left was a mostly empty room, with only two bed frames, rotting mattresses, a TV stand, and a lone chair near the bathroom. It was worn, and the sewing was ripped.

“What is this, Dean?” Sam asked.

“’92,” Dean said, “You were young, but growing fast. Way faster than I’d liked. Becoming more… curious about everything. You always wanted to know where Dad why. Why did he always leave? When was he coming back? Where did he go?” Dean paused, sitting down on the bed and running his hand over his face. He looked older, more stressed like this. Sam saw the toll that his two years at Stanford had taken on his brother.

“Spent my first birthday without Dad here,” Dean said, his voice quiet and sad, “I kept telling you that he’d be back any minute. He just had to take a detour. When he didn’t come, you kept asking. I eventually told you to piss off, and you ran to the bathroom cryin’. You came back to me later when I was watching TV or somethin’, and you had this shit bracelet made out of toilet paper,” Dean sucked in a breath, a light, nostalgic smile on his face, “You gave me an energy bar you’d picked up somewhere along the way here, and I got us Chinese. You spent all night insisting on doing everything for me. You listened to me gripe and complain about it, but you kept on. Always so stubborn. And, when Dad came back, you took care to chew his ass out about it. I didn’t know an eight-year-old could hold that much anger until then… Dad treated us to burgers and pie the next night on our way to Bobby’s for some off-time, both of which were at your insistence.”

Dean’s smile widened, and he looked up at Sam with eyes that glistened, eyes that were so clearly green under the bright sunlight pouring into the windows with no curtains. Sam was moved by the revelation, and became teary-eyed when Dean spoke again to say, “That was my best birthday.” Sam didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know what words could describe what he was feeling. Didn’t know if there were _any_ words to describe what he felt then. It was silent in that room for a long time. Dean broke the silence.

“I don’t know why I brought you here,” He sighed after a while, “I don’t know what I thought this would accomplish.” He was shutting himself out. His eyes no longer glistened. His focus was on the peeling wallpaper behind Sam. He stood and stuffed his hands in his pockets, ready to head for the door.

Sam wanted to speak, wanted to thank Dean for this. He wanted to be able to acknowledge Dean’s effort. And here Dean was, vulnerable and at his most genuine, and Sam didn’t know what to do, didn’t know what to say.

“Do you―Do you wanna head out?” Dean asked, his voice almost timid.

Sam shook his head. He walked over to Dean, who was now facing away from him. He reached over to grab Dean’s arm, and Dean whirled around. Sam drew him into a hug. Dean stood rigid as a board for god knows how long before he awkwardly snaked his arms around Sam’s lower back, unsure of what to do. His hands rested loosely there, and a certain sadness settled inside Sam. He’d forgotten how bad Dean was at these things. How any physical contact set Dean―especially when vulnerable―on edge, and Sam pulled away.

“Dean,” He whispered, “Thank you.” Dean nodded sheepishly and fixed his gaze on Sam’s chest. He wouldn’t―he couldn’t―meet Sam’s eyes, and Sam knew that. He was okay with that right now.

“I―I thought it’d be nice if I… if you knew that this was―I―”

“Yeah, man, no worries, okay?” Sam smiled sympathetically, even though he knew Dean wouldn’t see it, “I appreciate it, really, I do.”

“Okay,” Dean breathed, and he relaxed slightly. He dared a glance up at Sam, who currently had all his emotions on display, unguarded as he looked down at his big brother. His undying, dare he say it, love for his brother. His overwhelming sadness over losing Jess. His guilt for leaving Dean behind. His regret for treating his family the way he did. Dean searched Sam’s eyes, his own seeming sad, childlike, innocent. Then, in an instant, the look was gone. Buried. Sam felt an aching hole reopen in his chest.

“Dean,” He said, in an attempt to salvage the moment. But he didn’t know what else to say. What else _could_ he say?

“Let’s go,” Dean said, his eyes still on Sam. His voice was evenly monotone, not one emotion sneaking through the barrier he’d set back up, “I still got other places to show you.”

-

“Other places” turned out to be a landscape of nearly untouched, rolling hills with cracked roads and dry grasses and withered flowers encompassing its vastness. Sam thought it held one of the most picturesque views he’d seen in what seemed like forever. Beneath the hills, at the line of the horizon, Sam could see the small, sleepy town of Jericho settling in after a hard day’s work. The sun laid lazily atop the buildings, splashing its colors about the clouds and sky and casting long shadows of the buildings on the streets. It tainted the world in a pinkish light, making every color seem slightly off. Dean’s face was hooded and redder under the light it cast. Sam kept his gaze straight ahead, on one of the buildings that seemed particularly empty, its windows boarded and a sign on its side that had long since been taken down. Both brothers had a beer rested in their hands.

“Nice,” Dean commented, “Right?”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed emptily, all his focus on the abandoned building, “Pretty.”

“Yeah,” Dean answered, as if Sam had asked a question. The quiet that ensued next was peaceful.

After a while of staring bleakly at that same building, Sam spoke again.

“How are you, Dean?” He asked, turning his body toward his brother. And, when he did, it was like he was looking at another person. The tired sun had somehow managed to enhance Dean’s features and make him seem all the more beautiful than he already was. His freckles were everywhere, speckling his nose and cheeks and Sam had forgotten about those until now. His eyes were complimented by the sun, seeming golden in this light. Sam was awestruck. When had his brother become this way?

“I’m alive, and you’re safe, so that’s all that matters,” Dean said, a slight ( _fake_ ) smile itching at his lips.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Sam said.

“I’m fine, Sammy,” Dean sighed, reaching a hand up to rub at his eyes then pinch the bridge of his nose.

“Dean, if you―if something’s up, you can―”

“I can talk to you, yada, yada, yada. Yeah, Sam, I know, and I’m telling you. I’m good. I don’t need your fucking pity. I’m _fine,_ ” Dean snapped, and that’s when Sam knew something was seriously wrong.

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam said, “stop hiding from yourself. Something’s obviously going on, and I need you to tell me what so I can help.”

“Sam, stop. Don’t.” Dean warned, his voice threatening. Sam didn’t want to back down. He didn’t want to let it go. He needed something to focus all his repressed emotions on.

“Dean, you can’t keep doing this, man,” Sam continued, ignoring Dean’s warning. Dean breathed heavily.

“Doing what, exactly?” Dean turned to Sam, his eyes venomous and blazing, “I’m sorry for not wanting to talk about every goddamned problem in my life. It’s not important, Sam! But what is important is that you just lost your fucking _girlfriend_ and Dad’s missing. So we don’t have time to sit here and muddle through every one of my issues.”

“You still want to find the man? After all this, you’re still dead set on finding him?” Sam was angry now, “Dean, Dad’s _fine_. He probably stopped at some hick bar to drink his nonexistent worries away. Or he thinks he’s got some empty lead on whatever killed Mom. Tell me, Dean, why is finding him so important to you?”

“He’s _family_ , Sam. And he may have had some faults, but he did the best he could. You should show him some more respect,” Dean growled.

“Respect? Dean, he practically _abandoned_ you, and you’re still rambling on about respecting him? Well, you can shove your ‘respect’ up your ass,” Sam spat, anger burning in his throat.

“Why do you hate him so much, Sam? All he ever did was take care of us,” Dean countered, “All he ever did was protect us. All he ever did was keep us safe, make sure we could keep ourselves safe.”

“ _That’s_ what you call ‘taking care of us’? Because, to me, he was the master of neglect. He only came home to treat us as his punching bags, then left again.”

“He _tried,_ Sam, okay? And I’m sorry that his best wasn’t good enough for you. But he’s still our dad. And I’m still gonna look for him, with or without your help.”

They stood there, turning back to face the setting sun on the horizon. The silence that was once peaceful was now deafening. Sam’s previously progressing mood had deteriorated. Dean’s anger was rolling off of him in waves. His face was set in a scowl. So was Sam’s. They both hunkered over as they watched the sky. It was twenty minutes later that someone broke the all-consuming silence.

“I don’t want to fight,” It was Sam, “I don’t like fighting, not with you.”

Dean said nothing. He didn’t even move. Didn’t even flinch at Sam’s voice. Didn’t even blink. The silence threatened to steal Sam’s attempt at a conversation, and he just wasn’t having that.

“Please don’t do this, Dean,” Sam begged, his voice weak, showing all of his sorrow. The sound of it broke Dean out of his daze. He blinked and turned to look at Sam.

“Let’s go,” Dean hoarsely said, his voice just above a whisper. The tension in Sam’s chest and shoulders dissipated. There was no clear sign of anger left in Dean’s voice. Dean was moving to leave. Without realizing it, Sam reached out to touch Dean’s arm. Dean halted in his place.

“Please,” Sam pleaded, “Let’s stay. Just for a little longer.”

Dean wordlessly leaned against the Impala again. He shrugged Sam’s hand off of him. Sam’s chest ached. But he was grateful that Dean was at least being compliant. It was quiet. A soft breeze breathed against Sam’s face, blowing his hair back. It reminded him of the day he met Jess. The day Dean called him, freaking out.

“Tell me about her,” Dean prompted, “What’d she look like? What was she like? What were her favorite things to do?” Dean swallowed, waited a moment. Then he said, “Tell me how she made you feel. You said you were gonna… ask her to marry you. So tell me why.”

The request hit Sam like a punch to the gut. He didn’t want to talk about her. Didn’t want to think about her. Didn’t want to face his own guilt. He just wanted to acknowledge that he missed her. He made himself talk about her, though. A part of him knew he needed to.

“She was beautiful,” Sam began, “Probably one of the most photogenic people I know… well, knew.”

Dean interrupted him to request, “Can you… Show me a picture of her?” He waited a beat then added, “Please?”

San was taken back at this. He stared blankly at Dean’s soft and tortured eyes, uncomprehensive. Then, he realized Dean was waiting, so he had to give some sort of answer.

“Yeah,” Sam nodded, “Yeah, okay.” He pushed himself off the side of the car and pulled out his mostly empty wallet. He opened it, and his heart lurched painfully at the sight of Jess’s beautiful and damned smile. That once dazed-like smile of hers now mocked Sam, reminded him of what he’d lost. Reminded him of what he’d taken for granted. He fought the tears that threatened to spill. He offered the picture to Dean, who gave an approving nod.

“She’s very pretty, Sammy. You did good,” He smiled slightly at the picture, then turned it to Sam. It felt wrong, patronizing. Sam looked away from it. “What was she like?”

“Smart,” Sam recited instantly. That was always his first response to a question like that. Then he forced himself to go on. “Kind. Quirky. Snarky. Hilarious. Teasing. Genuine,” Sam paused to swallow as guilt wrenched his chest, “Honest. So damned honest. I loved her. It was easy.”

“How did she make you feel? Were you happy?” Dean pressed on. Sam didn’t know how to answer that. He knew Dean expected him to say yes. He knew he should say yes. But he couldn’t lie to his brother. Not with the memories of Brady itching at his throat. Not with Dean’s wide, believing eyes making it so damned difficult.

“She made me feel like I was good. She helped me when I needed it. Provided for me. I didn’t deserve her. I spent so much time moping, that I forgot to appreciate her. I disrespected her in so many ways.” Then the tears wanted to come again. He knew he didn’t deserve to let himself cry. He should suffer for what he did to her.

“How?” Dean asked, and Sam wished he hadn’t. With everything in him, he wished Dean didn’t have to ask that of all things. Sam didn’t know if he was ready to admit to his faults. He didn’t want to answer. But he knew that eventually, he’d have to face it. And Dean wasn’t going to let this one go.

“I cheated,” Sam murmured. He didn’t meet Dean’s eyes when they turned to stare at his side profile.

“I cheated… With a man.”

The world around him seemed to silence after that. Everything was too quiet. Everything was listening. The world waited on Dean’s response.

His voice came quietly and weakly. “Does this mean…? Are you…?” He cleared his throat and took a breath, “Does this mean you like men, Sammy?”

“I’m so sorry. God. I did this to her.” Sam couldn’t acknowledge Dean’s question, “I strung her along when I knew I couldn’t love her the way she wanted. I knew what I wanted, but I stayed with her anyway. And now look what I’ve done to her.” He was crying. Again. This was his fault. Somehow, it was. He knew that much.

“I asked you a question, Sam.” Dean’s voice wasn’t quite angry, but it was firm.

“Yes,” It was a hardly audible answer, “Are you… Will that be a problem for us?”

“No,” The words immediately fell from his brother’s lips, “I’ll just have to be on the lookout for a different gender to set you up with from now on.” Sam laughed weakly.

“And, at least if they fuck you over, I can actually beat their asses.” That earned another weak laugh.

“So, if you were… batting for the other team… wouldn’t that cause like, problems in certain aspects of your, uh, relationship?”

“You wanna know how I got it up during sex,” Sam deadpanned. Dean’s face reddened, and a slight, almost unperceivable nod bobbed his head up and down.

“Just because I prefer men doesn’t mean that my body doesn’t react to, uh… being stimulated,” Sam chuckled awkwardly, “I’m just not that into it.”

“O… Oh…” Dean was stiff, awkward, uncomfortable.

“It’s okay, Dean,” Sam tried not to laugh at his brother’s obvious discomfort at discussing this unmarked territory, “I’m not weirded out by you asked me questions about sex.”

“Were you ever, uh, _with_ any other guy, aside from the time with Jess, in that way?” Dean asked, his voice choppy.

“Yeah. I was drunk. Shit hurt like a motherfuck, but I was, y’know, into it. More so than I’d ever been with a woman.”

“Is that when you knew?” Dean’s face was dark, but Sam could tell by his tone that his big brother was genuinely curious.

“Well, I’ve always seen men differently than women. I’d mostly make female friends. But guys were like―I dunno, it was always just, _different_ , with them. And my body, uh, _reacted_ more around guys, but I didn’t want to actively pursue them because I was afraid of what Dad might think. I… didn’t know how he’d feel about it.” Sam felt lightheaded and winded once he was finished. Dean’s face contorted into anguish at the mention of Dad’s name. Sam expected Dean to say that Dad would accept Sam for who he was and what he chose to do, but Dean didn’t. Probably because he knew it wasn’t true.

Instead, he asked, “So, now that you’re being honest, how did you _really_ feel about Jess?”

Sam contemplated the question for a moment. Then, he said, “I know I loved her. But I don’t think I loved her the way I should’ve, the way she needed me to. I couldn’t make her completely happy. But she was my best friend, so I was too afraid of losing her. But, in the end, I hurt her. And now I’ve lost her anyway.”

“Hey, no,” Dean stated firmly, straightening himself as he turned toward Sam, “Listen to me, okay, Sammy? This is _not_ your fault. You have no reason to feel that way. Yes, you fucked up, but that in no way means you killed her. Don’t you _dare_ blame yourself for that.”

Sam nodded, teary-eyed and the look Dean sent his way was sad, sympathetic. Sam looked away; he didn’t want Dean’s pity. It was quiet for another long while. This time, it was Dean who broke the silence.

“We won’t look for Dad,” His voice was sure, “not right now at least. We can go to Bobby’s. Get you rested up and refreshed. We need you on your game if we’re gonna find him.”

“Thank you.” The tears were surging forward, just when Sam thought he’d gotten his emotions at bay.

“Let’s get some grub, yeah?” Dean was already moving toward his door. And, with some reluctance, Sam followed suit.


	5. Worst Nightmare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains graphic (!NSFW!) scenes depicting rape, violence, and their counterparts. Remember, consent is always a must, no matter what. This chapter in no way condones nonconsensual sex; rather, it does just the opposite (as you'll see in the following chapters). As of right now, there is no SFW version of this chapter, but there may be one later. The following chapters will mention and contain the aftermath of said events that occur in this chapter and the following one, so please, read at your own risk.

The food at the diner Dean insisted they stop at was unbearable, but that didn’t stop Dean from devouring his food before Sam had even gotten through half of his food. Dean sent Sam a dirty look when he saw how little Sam had eaten. He insisted that Sam take his food with them, as he wasn’t stopping anymore that night, and Sam “needed to get some food in him before he keeled over.”

-

Bobby’s property was just as Sam remembered it. The junk that he insisted was a salvage yard was just as large as Sam’s memory recalled, if not larger. A dog was chained up at the front, barking ferociously. Bobby stumbled outside, probably with the intention of shutting the dog up (Sam guesses this because of the scowling look on his face and the shoe held in his hand). But, when he took one good look at the Impala, he straightened. When his eyes slide over to see Sam in the passenger, his gaze goes soft. He meandered over to the car.

“Sam,” He said when Sam exited the car. His drawl was just as strong as ever, his voice husky. He pulled Sam into a tight embrace. “It’s good to see you, boy.” Sam breathed in the familiar smells around him. Bobby’s scent of the outdoors and alcohol. The dog was barking wildly then. But, after the door to Dean’s side slammed shut, the barks conformed to more of a constant whimper. The dog recognized him. Dean must’ve spent some amount of time here for it to recognize him. Gravel crunched under Dean’s feet as he made his way to the dog. The whimpers quieted, and Sam was still hugging Bobby, clinging to him. Bobby patted his back, sniffled in his ear, and if Sam was stupid enough, he’d assume Bobby was crying. If Sam was stupid enough, he wouldn’t have overlooked Bobby’s red, puffy eyes. He pretended to not hear Bobby’s, “I’m so sorry, kid,” as he patted his shoulder after pulling away from the hug.

The dog’s angry barks and vicious demeanor were nowhere to be seen or heard after Dean paid attention to him. He was still suspicious of Sam, but it melted away at dinner when Sam fed him the scraps. He even sat at Sam’s feet when they all gathered in the living room to watch whatever nonsense was playing on TV. In all of their hands was a beer, hanging loosely by the neck. Bobby’s dog, Rumsfeld, leaned up to lap up the sweat leaking from Sam’s bottle.

This particular part of the night wasn’t nearly as awkward as the rest of the night had been. Sitting in the living room with Bobby and Dean never was.

It only got awkward when Bobby said he’d turn in for the night. That left only Dean, Sam, and Rumsfeld, who was already dozing, his head rested on Sam’s feet. Sam cleared his throat.

“I’m gonna get another beer. Want one?” Dean offered gruffly, already standing.

“Yeah,” Sam answered. He knew he couldn’t face another conversation with Dean when he was even remotely sober. Moments later, Dean returned, tossing a bottle Sam’s way and popping the top off of his own. Sam watched as Dean raised his beer to his lips and drank. Sam watched Dean’s lips wrap around the mouth of his drink, coming back wet and red. Something inside Sam rumbled. He looked away.

“You gonna drink yours or what, lightweight?” Dean’s voice was startling. It brought Sam out of his complicated thoughts. He popped the top off his own drink and took a too-long swig, trying to forget Dean’s lips and the way they made him feel. Maybe he wasn’t as sober as he’d thought. Maybe that’s why he was thinking so provocatively of his brother at this moment.

“Well, damn, Sam, you ever gonna stop for a breath?” Dean snorted as he lifted the bottle toward his mouth again. Sam tried not to look. When he lowered his own bottle though, he couldn’t stop himself. He watched Dean’s lips pucker about the rim again, coming back just as plump and crimson and wet as the first time. He forced himself to remain silent. Rumsfeld shifted on the floor, moving his head from atop Sam’s feet. Sam didn’t notice.

“What do you wanna watch?” Dean asked, flipping aimlessly through the channels as he plopped down beside his brother. Sam swallowed.

“Doesn’t matter,” He responded, his voice hoarser than he’d expected it to be. He took another long pull from his drink, wetting his lips with his tongue excessively after. Dean settled on an old rerun of _Friends_.

Sam tried to keep his eyes and focus on the television, he really did. But as his sobriety slipped farther and farther from his grasp, his looks at his brother became harder and harder to avoid. He knew Dean must’ve noticed; his staring wasn’t exactly secretive. But Dean’s eyes remained on the TV.

-

**DEAN**

“Dean-ooooooo,” Sam murmured, his eyes drooping, “I’m so sleepy.”

Dean turned to his brother, who was fighting to keep his disobedient eyes open. Dean’s lips quirked up a little at how goofy his little brother looked.

“Wanna go to bed, Sammy?” Dean asked, already standing and getting ready to pull Sam to his feet.

“Noooooo,” Sam groaned drunkenly. Dean tried to pull Sam up anyway.

“C’mon, man, we gotta get you to bed,” Dean responded.

“Don’t wanna goooo.” Dean had forgotten how whiney Sam could be when he was drunk late at night. He’d forgotten how Sam stumbled through his words and drug out certain letters.

“Stop whining,” Dean commanded in a weak attempt at stopping his brother’s resistance, “Just let me take you to your bed.”

“Will you stay with me?” Sam asked, “Wanna see your pretty lips when I wake up.” Sam slurred, then his eyes widened, as if he didn’t mean to say that. Dean felt uncomfortable, but Sam was drunk, and he said things like that a lot. So, Dean brushed it off.

“Okay, Sammy, okay,” Dean agreed, and then Sam allowed himself to be moved. Rumsfeld woke and moved out of Dean’s path. On his way to Sam’s room, Dean knocked over the empty beer bottles Sam had consumed. “Lightweight,” He whispered to himself as he looked as the measly three beers Sam had drank.

With some effort, Dean managed to get Sam into bed. He made himself a pallet on the floor, even though Sam asked him to get into bed. Multiple times Sam made sure Dean was still there. Asked him to get into bed. But Dean knew that Sam would be pissed to know that Dean gave into his drunken pleas. It wouldn’t feel right to comply to Sam’s wishes, especially since he was drunk and confused.

“Dean-o, pleaseeeee,” Sam begged, “Please just lay with me. Just for a little, okay?”

In the end, Dean did climb into bed with his brother, who instantly draped his arms and legs over him. Dean was drawn into Sam’s warmth, and he allowed it. A part of him welcomed it. And, with Sam this close, Dean felt an urge to ask the question that had been pestering him all night.

“Hey, Sam?” He asked, and Sam hummed in response.

“Why’d you let yourself get drunk tonight?” He questioned, “You never drink.”

“Needed to forget,” Sam mumbled, “It hurts so much. Just needed to forget for a night.”

“What hurts?”

“Everything,” Sam whispered, as if saying it too loudly would make it too real, “I killed Mom, and I killed Jess. Let you and Dad down so much. So tired… So tired of bein’ me sometimes.”

Dean didn’t know what to say to that. Sam must’ve not realized what he was admitting, because his voice was even, unfazed by what he was saying. And, within two minutes later, Sam was snoring. Dean didn’t move, though. Not for a long time. He wanted to, told himself that he needed to, that Sam would kill him in the morning. But he was so tired, and Sam was radiating so much warmth, and all he wanted to do was stay there and keep Sam safe and happy…

Dean forced himself out of Sam’s bed and onto his pallet again. It was hard to fall asleep without his brother’s warmth beside him.

-

**SAM**

Sam’s head instantly began to pound when he drifted into consciousness. He ran to the bathroom to puke, tripping on something on the way there. When he returned, he noticed Dean there, on the floor. He was sitting up, rubbing at his head.

“Watch where you’re going, would you?” He said when he saw Sam, “You hit me in the fuckin’ head when you ran out to puke.”

“Sorry,” Sam shrugged, not really meaning it. He remembered the previous night vaguely; everything up to the point where they got to the bedroom. He remembered asking Dean to stay in his room for the night, but he didn’t expect Dean to actually do it.

Dean left the room within 15 minutes. The air between them was terse, awkward, for some reason. But Sam’s head hurt too much to dwell on it. So, as soon as Dean left, he threw on a pair of clothes, not bothering to check to see if they even matched, and he stumbled downstairs to the kitchen.

“Mornin’, Sunshine,” Bobby chuckled at Sam’s obviously rough appearance as he made his way to the table, “Long night?” Sam was silent. Dean was nowhere to be found.

“Where’s the aspirin?” He asked, rubbing at his head. Bobby nodded over toward one of the cupboards, and Sam grabbed a couple, downing it with tap water. Only then did he bother to ask where Dean was.

“Went to buy some food,” Bobby grumbled, “What I got here ain’t good enough for him. Wanted somethin’ extra greasy.” Sam nodded.

-

Turns out, Dean only went out to get food so he could make something to sate Sam’s hangover. His miraculous, probably diabetes-inducing hangover cure. After eating it, Sam felt extremely bloated, but somewhat better. Bobby was nowhere to be found; he’d caught wind of a hunt―one he didn’t want to miss. He asked Sam and Dean to tag along, but Dean said no before Sam could even answer. So, he was currently somewhere in the back of the house to get his things ready to head out. Bobby left that night with a short goodbye. Rumsfeld moped all night, finding comfort in no one. He was wary of Sam once again, as if he’d forgotten the friendship they’d formed the night before.

-

After that night, Dean kept Sam at a considerable distance from alcohol. He was wary about the way he acted around Sam. He kept an annoyingly close eye on him, though. Sam tried, but couldn’t figure out why. Dean wouldn’t talk about that night.

-

“Where are we going, Dean?” Sam asked, watching as Dean pulled on a t-shirt, a plain blue button-up, and his usual leather jacket from Dad along with a pair of jeans. He tossed a shirt, coat, and pair of jeans at Sam.

“You’ll find out, Sammy.” He looked up to flash a sly grin at his younger brother, then looked back down at his feet to finish pulling on his shoes.

Sam threw on his shirt and jeans. He was reminded for a moment of when Dean used to have to deal with his shit day and night and get him fed and into bed because he was either too emotionally fucked or drunk or hungover to do it himself. It seemed like another lifetime ago, when in reality, it was only three months ago when Sam acted this way. Since then, they’d gone on a couple hunts, searched in a couple locations for Dad, but always came up with nothing. So, they’d mosey on back to Bobby’s to brainstorm until another hunt came up. Sam had sworn off alcohol until he felt sane enough to control himself after their first hunt since Jess. He’d also sworn off torturing himself with thoughts of Jess constantly. He had designated certain days to allowing himself to mope over Jess, days which he stayed in mostly solitude. He’d found things that could still make him happy. He’d spent more time keeping himself busy. He’d actually started attempting to make himself happy.

They were currently on their way home from a hunt, but Dean insisted that they stop at a motel for a day. Sam couldn’t figure out why, even though he’d tried.

“Ready, Sam?” Dean asked from the bathroom, and moments later, he exited, ready to go.

“Yeah, one sec,” Sam responded as he pulled on his shoes, hopping around as he tried to quickly do so. He chased Dean out of their room to the car.

-

Where Dean was taking Sam turned out to be a huge party. A college party. Sam was extremely confused when Dean put the Impala in park in front of one of the fraternity houses. Sam could tell by the large Greek writing above the entrance.

“Uh, dude, what are we doing here?” Sam asked, suspicion in his voice.

“Well, the other night while you were showering, one of your college buddies called. Said she was gonna be moving colleges soon. I gave her my number for if she needed to call again and you didn’t answer. Just as I expected, the next time she called, you didn’t pick up. So, she called me. Said there would be a huge party soon and you just _had_ to be there. I told her we’d be there. So, here we are.”

“Who?” Sam couldn’t help but ask.

“A girl named Rebecca.”

Sam’s heart fell. Rebecca. One of Jess’s and his mutual friends. One of the only people who knew about him and Brady.

“Is this okay?” Dean asked, a tinge of confusion and regret in his voice.

“Uh… yeah, yeah. It’s okay.” Sam was _definitely_ gonna be drinking tonight, sane or not. “Are you staying with me?”

“Depends. You want me to?”

“Please.”

-

“Sam!” Rebecca exclaimed excitedly when she saw him and Dean walk into the huge party. Solo cups were everywhere―everyone seemed to have a drink in their hand. Rebecca tackled Sam in a tight embrace, burying her face in his chest.

“Hey, Becca,” Sam greeted, slowly wrapping his arms around her petite waist. She pulled back quickly and looked suspiciously at Sam.

“How have you been?” She asked, “Where the hell have you been, asshole? Why haven’t you been returning my calls?”

“Woah, one question at a time,” Sam laughed, “I’m okay. I’ve been crashing at my uncle’s. And I’ve been crazy busy lately.” The lies breathed through Sam’s lips with effortless ease. They weren’t good enough for Rebecca, however.

“You son of a bitch!” She shouted and pushed on Sam’s chest, “You’re a damn liar!”

“I’m sorry, Becca,” Sam offered, another weak smile, “I meant to call…”

“Tell you what, Sam,” She stopped pushing on him and stepped back, “don’t say anything to me if you’re gonna feed me lies.” She wasn’t mad, though. She turned her back on Sam, turned around to flash him another smile, then scampered into the crowd of red solo cups, sweat, and too-close bodies.

“I like her,” Dean remarked, stepping closer behind Sam so he could hear, “She knows how to put you in your place.” Sam rolled his eyes even though he knew Dean couldn’t see.

“We going get a drink or what?” Sam asked, already making his way to where he believed the alcohol would be.

-

Sam was tipsy, but not too drunk. He didn’t allow himself to get out of control. He’d lost count of the number of faces, male and female alike, that he’d turned down. It was starting to tire him out. Maybe he’d say yes to the next drunk person who asked. He needed a distraction from Dean, whose lips were oh-so-noticeable. He needed a distraction from Dean, who was shamelessly flirting with almost every girl who even glanced his way. He needed a distraction from Dean, whose flirting was raising a jealous wave in Sam’s chest every time Dean flashed that shit-eating smile at someone.

“Sure is a beauty, isn’t he?” A deep voice shouted in Sam’s ear. He turned toward the voice, who turned out to be a shorter man with spiked hair and green eyes that were close enough to Dean’s to make Sam comfortable. His hair was browner, though, but if Sam kept his focus on the eyes, this could be a bearable encounter. If he was reminded of Dean, he could be comfortable, calm.

“Uhh,” Sam didn’t know what to say. When he followed the man’s gaze, he found his brother to be the subject. Oh. Awkward.

“I have to say, though,” The short but burly man began, turning his eyes to Sam’s face, “You are just as beautiful. I’m Rodney.” Sam didn’t like being called that. It made him feel weird. He looked at the man’s eyes, and he was calm.

“Uhh, thanks,” Sam responded, “Sam.”

“I don’t know about you, Sam, but I’m looking for a good time, _away_ from all this noise, and I think you can offer that for me,” The man’s breath was warm, too warm on Sam’s neck. His lips ghosted over the skin there. A shiver coursed through him… Sam couldn’t figure out whether it was the pleasant kind.

“M-Maybe I can,” Sam answered, his voice shaking. Why was he shaking? It must’ve been the alcohol.

“Mmm, let’s go then. My room’s upstairs,” His voice was deeper, more seductive. His hands slid under Sam’s shirt. His fingers were cold, too cold. Sam’s stomach flipped uneasily.

“O-Okay,” Sam’s voice was almost a whisper. He stood shakily from his stool. He was too drunk for this. He turned to look for Dean. He was still there, talking to the many girls now surrounding him. The jealousy bubbled up again. Sam turned back around and grabbed Rodney’s wrist, spinning him around. He brought him close, tracing his lips over the man he’d be going upstairs with.

“Kiss me,” Sam whispered. He didn’t need to be told twice. Within one moment after Sam spoke, their lips were crushed together. Sam’s breath was taken, captured between the lips of the man he didn’t know. Suddenly, it didn’t matter how creepily straightforward the man had been. It didn’t matter that Dean was flirting with other girls. It didn’t matter that Jess was gone. Because Rodney was distracting enough, he was attractive enough.

Rodney’s hands trailed to Sam’s neck then back down to his belt loop. He pulled Sam closer. Snaked his hands under Sam’s shirt. Sam could already feel himself becoming turned on. He pulled away, saying, “Let’s go.”

-

Sam couldn’t see. He realized he couldn’t see because he was crying. Why was he crying?

“Hey, you okay in there? I’m getting impatient all alone out here.”

“I-I can’t,” Sam whispered drunkenly to himself as Rodney, who he’d now deemed as Creep, stood outside the bathroom door he’d locked himself in, “Please don’t make me come out.”

“Either you come out or I’m coming in,” Creep said moments later, twisting the locked knob, “I’m hurt. Why’d you lock the door, Beautiful?” There was that word again. Sam shivered. The tears came more quickly, rushing forward with an overwhelming forcefulness.

“One second,” Sam choked out, curling up on the toilet, “Can I shower first? Get ready?”

“If you must,” Creep sighed, “But I am not picky if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I just, I puked. I need to get cleaned up.” The lie was weak, easily detectable, but Creep didn’t call him on it.

“Want me to join?” His tone was sly. Bordering on an attempt at seduction. Sam’s insides twisted.

“N-no, I-I―”

“Oh, don’t be shy, dear, there’s nothing to be afraid of.” Except there was. The pressure that Creep was applying to open the door forcefully was one. The growing annoyance in Creep’s voice was another.

“Okay, okay,” Sam said, and the rattling at the door stopped, deciding that he had a better chance of escape if he wasn’t cornered in the bathroom, “I-I’ll come out.”

Sam slowly stood, his knees practically knocking together. He went to the sink, turning on the water and splashing it on his face to make it seem less like he’d just been crying. Then, he reached a shaky hand out to open the door. Creep was standing there, well, there was actually two of him, wearing a stomach-churning grin. Sam unnoticeably shivered. Shut the door behind him. Tried to move away from where he currently was, being that he felt cornered here. But Creep wouldn’t have it.

With an amount of force Sam wouldn’t expect the short man to have, he slammed Sam against the wall. He immediately attacked Sam’s neck, peppering saliva-coated kisses and licks and bites on Sam’s neck. Sam’s head swam, partially from what was happening, but mostly because of the force of the hit against his head.

“Pretty little thing, aren’t you? Love to be a tease,” Creep grumbled against Sam’s neck, “Love to be a little fucking tease, don’t you?” Creep pressed his pelvis to Sam’s and rocked his hips, emitting a groan from his lips. Sam remained rigid. He bit into his own lip, drawing blood to keep the tears at bay, but it didn’t work. They still welled in his eyes and ran down his cheeks.

“Don’t you?” Creep grunted more forcefully, making it clear that he expected an answer.

“Please… please, stop, okay? I-I don’t want this,” Sam whispered hoarsely.

“The pretty ones are always the teases,” Creep retracted his face from Sam’s neck, but their close proximity remained, “But, you see, Beautiful, I don’t take well to pretty people blue-balling me. It’s just not fair. So, you’re not getting off that easy. I’m getting off one way or another, whether you like it or not. You agreed to this, and I won’t let you back out now.”

The tears began coming at a downpour now. Creep went back to work at Sam’s neck. He started pulling at Sam’s shirt. He detached from Sam to pull off his own shirt. He attached his lips this time to Sam’s own lips. Sam was unresponsive. He thought of Dean. Where was he? What was he doing now? How drunk was he? Was he safe? Sam wished he could call him, but he’d left his phone in the car.

Sam went to another place in his mind, a place where Dean was. And Sam was okay in this place. He was happy. Creep didn’t exist. He wasn’t pulling off Sam’s shirt, pants, and now underwear. He wasn’t butt-ass naked in front of Sam as he did so.

Sam thought of what little he could remember about the night Dean stayed in his room with him. The way Dean looked so flawless in the morning light. The way Dean took care of Sam, made sure he was okay. The way he looked at Sam when Sam told him how sleepy he was. The way he looked so perfectly content with Sam. Sam’s thoughts remained with Dean, even when more people began walking into the room to watch. Sam didn’t notice them.

Not until he was jerked back to reality at the shockingly painful sensation in his ass. He hadn’t realized how long he’d been out of it. Creep was now where Sam wanted him least. And he had a whole audience watching. There was another man there now, jerking Sam off. The two men were invading Sam’s space and violating him in the worst way. And people were just taking watch. Laughing. Joking. Some even claiming they wanted to take part too. Sam’s eyes watered. He sucked in a sharp breath. Creep grunted and groaned as he pumped in and out of Sam. The other man was whispering disgusting words in his ear. Sam began crying again. _Think of Dean_ , Sam told himself, but he couldn’t.

“Take it like the filthy whore you are!” Someone called out, and a string of other derogatory words rang out from others. There were video cameras taping him, and Sam tried to hide his face. How did they even get here?

-

**DEAN**

Dean couldn’t find Sam. He’d been momentarily glancing Sam’s way, but Sam had moved. He was gone, and he hadn’t come back for a while now. He’d left with a man, Dean saw that, but he should’ve told Dean if he was going somewhere with him, so where was he?

“Coming watch the show, girls?” A man asked as he passed by the girls around Dean, grabbing one’s ass as he passed.

“Who’s the unlucky sap tonight?” One, Vanessa, Dean thinks, asked.

“Some random. Hey, bro, you should come watch,” The guy addressed Dean.

Dean didn’t have any idea what they were talking about, but the girls were all insisting that Dean go, and they were giggling all the way up. They led Dean to a bedroom, and he couldn’t see among all the heads, and he couldn’t hear above all the talking. People were holding video cameras. Dean tried to see above all the people.

“What is this?” He asked another of the girls.

“C’mon, let’s get a closer look, shall we?” Another smirked, “Rodney’d love to get an eyeful of you.”

They led Dean to the front of the crowd, and what he saw made his stomach drop. Sam, tears streaming down his face, being… _violated_ by two men, one of which was one that Dean had seen Sam talking to. Others were beginning to join. The crowd was shouting at him, screaming terrible things. His hair was being pulled as the man in his ass raped him. Sam met Dean’s eyes almost as soon as Dean got to the front. His eyes were dazed and confused, as if he didn’t comprehend all that was going on around him.

“Come for us, you filthy slut!” Someone behind a camera screamed, and before Dean knew what he was doing, he decked the guy. His anger was overwhelming.

“Don’t you dare talk about him like that!” He yelled. He ran to Sam’s side, pulling the man who was currently jerking him off off of him. He tackled him to the ground.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!” He shouted, and he was practically seeing red because he was so angry.

“It’s consensual, man, calm down!” The guy responded.

“You call that consensual?!” He screamed as he pointed to Sam, who was weeping now, quietly begging the men to stop. The crowd was silent now. The man who was raping Sam had stopped his actions and was backing away from Sam. Then, Dean started throwing punches. He didn’t care who it was, didn’t care where it landed, as long as it wasn’t Sam.

When he came back to his senses, Sam was screaming at him. Telling him that he was going to kill someone. Dean looked down, and he had his hands wrapped around the neck of the guy who he’d seen Sam leave with. He wanted to continue, wanted to kill the man. But he thought for a moment of Sam, who had been traumatized enough for a lifetime tonight, and he let go. He instead slammed the man’s head on the ground enough to knock him out then stood up. The crowd was gone. It was just him, Sam, and two men lying unconscious on the ground.

“Sammy,” Dean breathed, rushing to his brother’s side, “Where are your clothes? We need to get you out of here.”

“I-I don’t know, Dean. I don’t know,” And then he was crying again, his head in his hands. Dean took a quick look around and saw Sam’s boxers, among his other clothes.

“C’mon, man, let’s get you dressed and to the hospital.”

“Dean, I-I’m so sorry,” Sam cried as Dean grabbed his clothes.

“Shh, Sammy, it’s gonna be okay. You hear me?” Dean said, grabbing Sam’s boxers and holding them out for Sam to step into them. Sam did, and Dean took care to touch Sam as little as possible. He knew that the last thing Sam would want right then was human touch.

He was halfway through pulling on Sam’s shirt when there was a loud hit, and Sam slumped to the ground.


	6. Drunk

**SAM**

“You didn’t think it would be _that_ easy to get away, did you, Pretty Boy?” It was Rodney’s voice that spoke, “No one gets a hit on me and doesn’t get a couple in return.” Then, Dean was being pounced on, and Sam (who was hardly conscious at the moment) heard the hits begin. Heard Dean’s grunts. Heard the bones crack. Heard the progressively angrier strings of words falling from both men’s lips.

“I will kill you!” That was Dean, “How dare you! How fucking dare you! You insane, disgusting, repulsive animal!” Dean’s threats were very real―Sam could see it in Dean’s eyes when he turned toward the two. The amount of pure, raw, unleashed rage in his brother’s eyes was petrifying. He really was going to kill him. And Sam didn’t know if he could stop it this time.

The punches became harder and harder, more and more rage fueling each one. Each time Dean drew back his arm for another hit, it came back bloodier than before, and Dean was punching far too rapidly for Rodney to get in more than a couple weak hits. So, he mostly just shielded his face.

“Dean!” Sam tried to scream it, but his voice was hoarse from crying, “Dean, stop! Please, stop!” Nothing.

“Dean, I’m begging you, stop! It’s not his fault! I said yes; I came up here with him voluntarily!” That was enough to break Dean from his outrage for a moment.

“You, you what?” Dean asked, lowering his hand and looking up from his place above Rodney at Sam―and the rage was still as prominent as ever.

“I-I agreed to come here with him… I agreed to, you know.”

Dean didn’t have a chance to respond, because Creep had regained his composure and was now flipping Dean then pinning him down. He immediately started swinging.

“Think you’re so tough, Pretty Boy? Think you can come in here and save your boy toy? Mmm, if he were mine, I’d wanna save him from fucking other guys too,” He stopped to smile sickly at Sam, “With a mouth like that, who wouldn’t want to?”

“Shut your filthy mouth,” Dean growled through busted lips and bloody teeth. Creep cackled and threw another punch. Dean grunted. Spat bloody saliva in the other man’s face. Creep bared his teeth and began hitting Dean with more force, more rapidity.

Sam didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know how to stop Creep from hitting Dean. He didn’t know how to stop Dean from hitting back. He lay there, drying tears on his cheeks, trying to scream at them to stop, like some weak bitch. Then, he had a terrible idea. The only idea that made sense at the time. The only idea that would stop them. Sam made his way slowly over to his shoes. Pulled out the knife he’d tucked safely there so Creep wouldn’t see.

Dean looked over just momentarily, blood dripping down into his eyes and onto his face. His eyes, however tainted with anger, still held a clear message: _Do it._ Sam obeyed.

He walked up behind Creep as quietly and unperceivably as he could, even though neither would have heard him anyway; they were too focused on harming each other. Sam positioned himself behind Creep, close enough to hear his last words.

“Where’s your brother now, Dean-o?”

Sam plunged the knife through the back of his throat. He let out a surprised gasp, blood trickling down his throat at first, then beginning to steadily pour. He absently groaned, and Sam pulled the knife back out, and he collapsed. On top of Dean. Dean squirmed underneath him and removed himself. Sam sat back on his hells, bloodied knife in hand. He stared blankly at the body on the ground. The body of his rapist. His rapist who had a name. A life. Friends. A mother. A father. Maybe a brother or sister. Maybe an ex-boyfriend or girlfriend who ruined him. He was human, Sam thought, and humans are sometimes salvageable. Why had he killed him?

“Sammy,” Dean was shaking Sam, “Sammy, man, you with me?”

Sam acknowledged his brother, whose voice was carefully soft. Whose hands were just lightly touching his shoulders. Who had a busted lip, a bloody face, a blooming bruise on his cheek, and an already swelling eye. Sam’s heart swelled in his chest at the pitiful sight of his brother, who had just beaten the shit out of a naked man, for him. This is what mattered. Dean is what mattered. Sam would kill for him―he’d just proven that.

“Dean,” He whispered, “Oh, god, Dean.”

“I’m here, Sammy, I’m here.” And then he was hugging Sam.

-

Sam dressed Dean’s wounds as best as he could―he was mostly sober now, so he could better sort through his muddled thoughts. Dean was silent. He stared quietly at Sam.

“I’m okay, man,” Sam said as he sewed up an open cut just above Dean’s brow. That would scar.

“I know,” Dean responded gently, almost fondly, “You always are.”

Sam stopped for a moment, shocked at the amount of kindness in Dean’s voice. He looked down to meet Dean’s eyes. There was a burning sort of intense emotion there, but Sam wasn’t quiet lucid enough to decipher it. He forced his gaze back to Dean’s brow. Forced his hands back into motion again.

“Sam, can I ask you something… about tonight?” Dean asked, his voice lowered at the last part. Sam swallowed and forced himself to nod.

“Why’d you say yes? Why’d you go back with him?” Dean’s voice was carefully pensive, “I mean, you’d obviously changed your mind about the whole thing along the way… But, why’d you agree in the first place?”

“Lonely,” Sam choked out, then forced himself to go on, “I-I saw you smiling and enjoying yourself―flirting with those girls―and I just felt so _alone_... and I just wanted to sate the pain of it, you know, just for a little while, and―”

Dean reached up and grabbed Sam’s hands. Forced him to meet his gaze. “Sammy,” He whispered, “It’s okay. You’re not alone, not anymore. We’re in this together, okay? You and me.” Sam liked the sound of that.

A strange urge overcame Sam at that moment. The kind of urge that confused him. He had the sudden urge to reach over and lightly kiss his brother’s lips. Of course, Sam didn’t obey the urge. He pretended it wasn’t there. He brushed it off. Blamed it on the alcohol still slightly affecting him. But a part of him knew it wasn’t the alcohol.

-

After that night, Dean was glued to Sam’s side once again. Always making faces when Sam said he was going out for a beer night after night. Always insisting on tagging along. When they were there (usually at the redneck bar a couple miles from Bobby’s), Dean was practically hugging Sam’s side all night. He even tried following Sam to the bathroom. Finally, after Sam had had enough of the overbearing hovering, he called Dean out.

“Dean, I can take care of myself, okay?” Sam sighed as he shrugged on his shirt. Dean followed him as he walked to the kitchen, where Bobby was sipping on a beer, leaned nonchalantly against the counter. He looked up when he heard Dean’s voice.

“I know you can; I just wanna come, Sammy. I’ve got some steam to blow off too,” Dean responded casually, shrugging his shoulders. Sam huffed and walked over to the fridge, grabbing a burger he’d saved from the night before. Bobby quirked an eyebrow.

“What are you going on about, boy?” He asked, lifting the beer to his lips, and, when neither of the brothers answered, he said, “Well, I’m not getting any younger here.”

It was Sam who folded. “All I want is a night to myself, and this fuck won’t let me even leave the house without him. He acts like I’m just gonna die without him.” Bobby let out a long exhale and shook his head. He placed his beer on the table.

“Dean, got anything to say?” His eyes drifted to address Sam’s brother.

“I do not follow you around everywhere!” Dean disregarded Bobby, addressing Sam instead.

“Really? Are you fucking kidding me? When was the last time I even went out to the scrap yard without you, Dean?” Sam quipped.

“I’m sorry for wanting to get something done instead of laying on my ass all day!”

“Cool it, son,” Bobby intervened, “Sam’s right, Dean. You’ve been so far up his ass lately that you don’t know what to do with yourself when he’s even just gone to the bathroom to piss.”

“That is _not_ true,” Dean answered weakly.

“Bullshit,” Bobby spat, then turned to Sam, “Enjoy your night out, Sam. Dean ’n I’ll be working on some research for a case for a friend of mine. Don’t wait up.”

“Woah, woah, woah, Bobby!” Dean shouted exasperatedly, “So not fair, dude! If Sam’s gonna go out by himself, he needs someone to get him there and back. No way in hell I’m letting hi drive home drunk off his ass.”

“First of all, I ain’t your ‘dude.’ Second, do whatever shits your kicks, Dean, I don’t care. Just let the boy go out on his own for a night, okay?”

This meant, to Dean, that he could set whatever restrictions he wanted on Sam’s “night out.” As long as it was alone. Said restrictions involved Dean calling Sam every hour on the hour to check in, driving Sam to the bar (Dean wanted to also drive him home, too, but Sam had made friends with the bartender, Linda, and she was more than willing to drive him home after her shift.), texting Dean when he was heading home, and calling him at any sign of trouble. Sam accepted the stipulations, even if it was with reluctance, because a part of him was just glad that he got a couple hours to himself.

The drive to the bar was either spent in tense silence and many interruptions from Dean.

“You sure you wanna go alone, man?”

If someone even looks at you in a way that makes you uncomfortable, you call me. Got it?”

“I’ll be up most of the night, and I’ll be here as quickly as you need me if something happens.”

“You call me when you’re on your way back, you hear?”

“You sure you don’t wanna head back? We can if you want to.”

“Did you forget your wallet? Phone? Cash?”

“Bobby’s got a nice stash of stuff at home that I can get ahold of. We can get drunk off our asses back at home, man.”

“You gonna be okay alone, Sammy?”

“Dean!” Sam shouted frustratedly, “I am _fine!_ I want to go alone, okay? Let me go alone.” Dean’s face went stoney. Stayed that way even after Sam practically barreled out of the Impala and threw a halfhearted goodbye his way. Sam didn’t look back. Felt Dean’s eyes on his back as he walked inside. Then, he heard the Impala speed off over the hustle and bustle inside the bar.

No one looked up when Sam entered the bar, no one except Linda, who also waved and sent a greeting his way, complimented by a warm smile. He seated himself at the far end of the bar, away from everyone. Sam didn’t talk to anyone aside from Linda here. Now that he thinks of it, Sam no longer talked to anyone aside from Linda, Bobby, and Dean (and sometimes Rumsfeld, but he didn’t count that). He got shaky when men were within a 20-foot radius. He scared all the women off with his broody aura. Every woman except Linda, that is.

“Hey, Sam, what can I get ya,” Linda asked as she approached him, wiping the spot before him, “just a beer?”

“Yeah, and keep ’em comin’,” Sam answered, “Thanks, Lin.”

“Of course, hun.” She trotted off, turning to send a friendly wink his way.

Linda was an older woman of about 50 or 60. She knew Bobby from a hunt a couple of years back. Turns out, most people in this bar were hunters, Linda included. She’d retired about fifteen years back after her husband died; it was a werewolf. She didn’t talk about her personal life much, which Sam appreciated, but that didn’t mean that she didn’t ask about other people’s business. Sam had gotten better at eluding such conversations, and Linda hadn’t noticed, or, at least, she hadn’t said anything about it. One thing Linda did like, though, was gossiping with Sam. Mostly because she knew Sam wouldn’t tell a soul. She never spread Sam’s secrets either; Linda was as good a friend as any when it came to keeping the secrets of those she really cared for.

“Where’s your boyfriend?” Linda questioned as she popped the top of the beer, placing it in front of Sam.

“Dean,” Sam corrected her, “He’s back at Bobby’s. And, it’s not like that. He’s my brother.” He lifted the bottle to his lips and gulped down as much as he could.

“Hasn’t stopped some people before,” Linda remarked nonchalantly, peering around the place as her elbow rested on the top of the bar. Sam choked, and put his beer down, coughing. He looked at her with wide eyes and whispered, “Who?”

“See Manny over there?” She nodded toward a man with peppery hair, shooting darts with a wideset woman, “That ain’t no random woman he’s with.”

“How are they related?” Sam took care to keep his voice low.

“First cousins,” Linda said.

“How do you know?”

“It’s real easy to listen in on conversations when you’ve got nothin’ else to do all day,” Linda shrugged, wiping down her work station behind the bar, “People talk, Sam.”

“You really are nosey, Lin,” Sam chuckled.

“That ain’t all either,” Linda leaned in to continue, “Girl’s pregnant.”

“You’re fucking kidding me!” Sam whisper-shouted.

“Watch your language, boy!” Linda laughed and reached out to hit him on the back of the head.

“Ow!” Sam proclaimed, even though it didn’t really hurt, “How far along is she?”

“Two months, according to Eddy.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Don’t use the good Lord’s name in vain,” Linda retorted, “I know damn well your daddy taught you better than that.” Sam’s smile faltered. He took a long drink of his beer.

“Whatcha drowning tonight, Sam?” She asked.

“Lots,” was his response.

“You got lots of explainin’ to do then,” She said.

“Just some stuff. ’s in the past now.”

“Obviously not, if it’s driving you to drink.”

“It’s pretty heavy,” Sam responded, “Not exactly something to discuss in a crowded bar.”

“Tell me about it on the way home then.” And, wow, she really wasn’t going to let this one go.

“Okay, okay, I will.”

-

Sam, as usual, had forgotten the number of drinks he’d consumed. His vision was swimming, and his heart was in his ears. Everyone in the bar had a twin. Linda hadn’t bothered to check in on him in a while. Dean was calling. Sam shot a text back, typing out an “I’m okay, can’t talk,” or he thought he did. In reality, he’d actually sent, “M ok, cNt tslj.” It was good enough for Dean though, who simply sent back, “Dude, how drunk are you?” Sam didn’t bother responding. Too much effort. And, god, Sam hadn’t been this intoxicated in a long, _long_ time.

Even when he wasn’t talking to Dean though, his brother remained in Sam’s mind. The way Dean had been acting since he’d gotten Sam from Stanford had set him on edge. He was so much nicer, more open with his feelings. Dean was never a very feely kind of guy, so it was strange seeing him act this way around Sam.

Sam thought of Dean’s lips and how enticing they were, especially when Sam was drunk. He thought of the way Dean’s lips puckered when he drank. He thought of the way Dean’s lips wrapped around a straw. He thought of the perfect plumpness of Dean’s lips. He thought of the way Dean’s lips were especially plump and pink when he woke. He thought of how soft Dean’s lips must be, and, dear god, he missed Dean.

Someone was sitting beside Sam. Someone warm, and someone who wasn’t Dean. Sam tried to ignore the person, but they made it all but impossible by talking to him.

“Hey, handsome,” the voice was coarse, raspy. It reminded him of Creep. And, oh god, oh god, oh god…

Sam swallowed and tried his damnedest to signal Linda without saying anything. But she was off on her own with her back turned to him, pouring a drink for a huge man who made her look tiny in comparison.

“I said, ‘hey, handsome,’” The voice came again, and Sam’s heart was pounding.

“H-Hey,” Sam choked out. He couldn’t look at the man.

“Came here alone?”

“N-No.”

“You’re a bad liar.” Sam could hear the smile accompanying the words. It made his stomach turn uneasily.

“Linda,” Sam called, “’nother drink.” Sam wasn’t even halfway through with his beer.

“Sure thing, hon,” Linda responded, turning to face him. She must’ve noticed the ghostly pale look on his face, because she practically ran to his side.

“Sam, you don’t look so good… Let’s get you outside for some air, okay?” She said, grabbing his arm and trying to help him up. But, Sam didn’t want it. The touch scared him. He jerked his arm out of her grip, his eyes wild and fearful.

“D-Dean,” He mumbled, “Want Dean. Get Dean!”

“Okay, sure, Sam, I’ll let you call Dean. But you gotta get outside if you want to talk to him.” Linda kept a safe distance from him now, but she kept her hands out to catch him if he toppled over.

“Can get m’self out,” Sam hiccupped, “Don’t need no help.”

“Okay, Sam,” Linda said, “Go ahead.”

Sam stumbled off of the bar stool, the unknown man asking Linda questions as he did. Sam steadied himself on the nearby pool table, reaching out for anything to keep him upright as he made his way out. When he finally made it outside, he made Linda go back inside. He searched in his pockets and fished out his phone. Good thing he’d put Dean on speed dial.

“Sammy,” Dean breathed just after the first ring, “What’s wrong?”

“Dean, please… C-come get me. Need you.” Sam hadn’t realized he was crying.

“Are you okay?” Dean asked, worry clear in his voice.

“Just need you, Dean. Need your pretty lips,” Sam said, not meaning to let the last part slip, “Sorry.”

“I’m coming. Just wait outside, okay? Where’s Linda?” Sam heard the engine start up. Dean must’ve been waiting in his car for Sam to call.

“Inside. Told her I could make it out here on my own. Don’t need no help,” Sam grunted.

“Okay, Mr. Macho Man,” Dean chuckled, “Hey, what really made you call?”

“Man,” Sam explained, “He came up to me and, and―” He couldn’t finish, but he didn’t need to. Dean understood.

“Okay, okay, it’s okay, Sammy. Stay outside. I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Please don’t hang up,” Sam begged. He needed to hear Dean’s voice.

“I’m not, okay?” Dean’s voice was calm, soothing, soft, “I’m right here, man.”

“’m sorry,” Sam said, “for leaving you. Missed you a lot… at Stanford.”

“I know you did.”

“Did you miss me?” He asked.

“Yeah, man, I did.”

“Did you think of me a lot?”

“Every day,” Dean answered, unfazed. Sam’s heart began pounding again.

“You did?”

“Yeah.”

“Me too. Every Christmas. Remembered how much you hated it, and I―I just missed you. Missed you a lot, Dean. Why did I leave?” Sam choked on his tears, “Why’d I go, De?”

“Shh, it’s okay. It’s okay, Sam. I’m not mad because you left. And, besides, you’re back now.” Dean was still calm as ever. His voice was honest.

“Why aren’t you mad?”

“Because I can’t stay mad at you.” Sam’s heart fluttered at that.

“Why aren’t you here?” Sam asked, “Need you.”

“I’m almost there, promise,” Dean reassured him.

“I don’t wanna look for Dad,” Sam admitted, “Wanna stay here, with you. Wanna stay with Bobby. Don’t wanna hunt anymore.”

“Okay, Sam,” Dean said.

“Are you mad?” Sam asked, “Because I don’t want to find Dad?”

“No,” Dean answered. Just that.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you?”

“Almost there.”

“’m scared, De.”

“Why?”

“What if I never get better? What if I can’t stop missing Jess? What if I can’t ever be happy because of what happened… Because of Creep?”

“Creep?”

“The man who―”

“Oh.”

“What if I can’t get over it? What if I can’t have sex, or talk to anyone, or touch anyone for the rest of my life? What if I die alone?” Sam’s tears came again.

“You’ll get over it, Sammy, I know you will.” Dean sounded sure.

“What if I don’t?”

“Then I’ll be here. You won’t have to be alone.”

“Miss you.”

“I’m turning in.”

Sam looked up, and sure enough, there was Dean. Sam smiled goofily through his tears. Dean hung up and threw his phone in the backseat. He hopped out of the car and jogged toward Sam, who was seated on the steps at the side exit of the bar.

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean smiled when he was standing in front of Sam.

“Dean,” Sam breathed. Dean leaned down and grabbed Sam. Sam didn’t flinch. Instead, he invited in the familiar scent of Dean, and he allowed his brother to lift him up. Dean shouldered Sam’s weight, grunting as Sam leaned on him. Sam was overwhelmed by the smell of Dean. He grinned.

“Missed you, Dean,” He whispered in his brother’s ear.

“Yeah, I know you did,” Dean answered.

“Were you waiting in your car for me?” Sam asked.

“No.”

“You’re lying. Right through your teeth,” Sam laughed and pointed toward Dean’s mouth. His hand just brushed over Dean’s lips, and he shivered. Dean reddened at what Sam said but didn’t say anything. It wasn’t much later that Dean was pulling the car door open and shoving Sam inside, leaning over him to buckle him in. Sam’s heart fluttered; Dean’s lips were so close. He wanted to kiss them. He was going to, but by the time he processed the command, Dean was already walking to the driver’s side.

“Dean, why do you care about me so much?” Sam asked on the way back to Bobby’s.

“Because you’re my brother, Sammy,” Dean answered, “and you always come first.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s just the way it is.” Dean wasn’t even fazed by his own response.

“It shouldn’t be that way,” Sam furrowed his eyebrows as he stared at his lap, “You matter too, Dean.”

“Okay.” Dean didn’t believe him.

“You do,” Sam insisted, “You’re good, Dean.”

“Okay.”

“Stop saying okay. You _are_ good. You matter to me,” Sam looked up at Dean. His face was pensive, staring out the window with his face set in a solemn, carefully guarded expression. He wasn’t receiving anything Sam was saying. It made Sam angry.

“Why don’t you believe me, dammit!” Sam shouted, throwing his hands on the dashboard.

“Hey, don’t hit Baby,” Dean fussed, “Drunk or not, you don’t hit her.”

Sam was quiet the rest of the way home.

-

Bobby was asleep when they got home. Sam was a little lighter on his feet by the time they got back, so he insisted on walking himself inside. Dean didn’t argue, but he stayed close behind Sam just in case. Rumsfeld lifted his sleepy head when he heard Sam stumble in, and his tail thumped against the ground. He meandered over to Sam, sniffing at his feet. Sam stopped to pat his head clumsily, and Dean shooed him. It didn’t stop Rumsfeld from following them to the bedroom, though.

Dean helped Sam work himself out of his shirt, and Sam’s sluggish mind was already becoming awash with exhaustion. He smiled lazily as Dean pulled off his pants.

“Manny’s dating his cousin,” Sam chuckled, “Linda told me today. And they’re pregnant.”

“Really?” Dean responded, his voice bland with disinterest.

“Yeah, and Linda thought we were dating,” Sam added. Dean sat Sam on the bed so he could pull the jeans off of his legs.

“Yeah? What’d you say?” He asked, pulling off the pants then walking over to the dresser to grab clothes for Sam to sleep in. And a new pair of boxers.

“I said that you were my brother,” Sam said, “and she said that that doesn’t stop some people. Then she told me about Manny.” Dean snorted.

“Some people are so fucked in the head that their morals are too,” Dean remarked absently. Sam shrugged.

Dean walked back over and placed the clothes on the bed beside Sam. He waited, and Sam stared at him, confused.

“You gonna strip, or what?”

“You gonna pay?” Sam joked, raising an eyebrow. Dean rolled his eyes.

“I forgot how perverse you are when you’re drunk,” Dean said, but there was a smile on his lips, “Take off your damn boxers.”

“Ooh, Dean, I get all tingly when you get demanding,” Sam chuckled, then stood and fumbled with his boxers, only getting them halfway down his hips before Dean took over. Sam felt embarrassed, even in his drunkenness. Sam was taken back to that night… When he was naked and Dean found him… In front of all those people… Laughing…

“No,” Sam said, his voice shaking. His hands were on Dean’s, which were pulling his boxers down his thighs.

“What the hell, man? You don’t want to put on a clean pair of boxers?” Dean’s voice was slightly annoyed.

“I―Dean, I―please, don’t… I―” Sam didn’t know what to say. He felt hot tears clouding his vision. Dean’s hands moved and he stood up, concern showing on his face.

“Hey, Sam, you okay? What’s wrong, man?” He asked, reaching out to touch Sam’s arm. Sam jerked away from his touch, then reached down to pull his boxers up.

“Just can’t… Not after…”

“Okay, hey, okay, you hear? We can get you changed tomorrow. Do you want to put on your shirt and pants?”

“Okay.” Sam grabbed the plaid pajama pants Dean had fetched and handed them to Dean.

“You want me to? Are you sure you’re okay with that?”

“Yeah, just… no boxers,” Sam responded.

“Okay.” Gingerly, Dean pulled the pants up Sam’s legs. He was careful when he got up to Sam’s thighs, taking care not to touch anywhere he didn’t need to. Sam stared at Dean. At his lips.

Dean pulled on Sam’s shirt, and when he finished, he lingered. He stared at Sam in confusion. Why was he―? Oh, Sam had caught his arm just before it fell to his side, keeping Dean close. Sam didn’t know what to do now. He looked at Dean, at his lips. Dean didn’t say a word. Didn’t even dare to breathe.

“You have nice lips,” He said, and Dean burst into laughter. He moved away from Sam and pushed at his chest.

“Get out of here,” He chuckled.

“You do!” Sam shouted. Dean was still laughing. Sam crossed his arms over his chest.

“What? That was a genuine compliment?”

“Never mind,” Sam pouted, “I wanna go to sleep.”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry for laughing at your compliment. Thanks, Sammy.” The words were teasing.

Sam didn’t know what to do with himself. He stared at Dean’s face as he laughed. He didn’t want to think that Dean looked absolutely beautiful when he laughed, because he hated using that word, but that’s what he looked like. And Sam was angry at Dean. He didn’t want Dean to look beautiful when Sam was mad. It wasn’t fair.

“Stop laughing at me,” Sam said, and Dean did. It gradually died down, until he was left with only a slight smile on his lips. His eyes twinkled. They hadn’t twinkled in a while. Sam remembered his father’s robe.

“You ready for bed?” Dean asked. Sam nodded sleepily, his anger already forgotten.

“Okay, let’s get you tucked in.” Sam stood, and Dean pulled the blankets back for Sam to crawl into bed. He did, and Dean pulled the blankets up. He was getting ready to leave, and Sam didn’t want that.

“Don’t leave,” Sam begged, “Please don’t leave me, Dean.”

“Sammy, I’m not doing this,” Dean sighed.

“Please, Dean, lay with me.” Sam asked. Dean exhaled heavily. There was the sound of footsteps, then the sound of blankets pulling back.

“No, get changed,” Sam said. Dean sighed again.

“Jesus, Sam,” He remarked.

“Don’t want you uncomfortable.”

“Okay, I’m going.”

“Don’t leave.”

“Sam, how am I supposed to change if I can’t leave the room?”

“Wear my clothes,” Sam shrugged. Dean rolled his eyes.

“You’re so problematic, kid, you know that?” He walked over to the dresser again, grabbing Sam’s clothes. He undressed, and Sam watched. He didn’t change his boxers.

Dean turned out the light and climbed into bed with Sam’s clothes on, but he still smelled like himself. He moved in close, his body almost touching Sam’s. Sam was too tired to be nervous. He turned toward Dean, pushing closer, his body touching Dean’s. Dean didn’t move. Within moments, Sam was asleep.


	7. Visions

He lifted his head, peering at the cracked motel mirror, seeing fragmented pieces of himself in the many different cracks. He sighed, feeling the tears well up in his eyes again, attempting to swallow them down. His throat burned. He clutched the sink with all the force he held, his knuckles white and pushing against his skin. A heavy, burdened exhale passed his lips, along with an unpermitted whimper. Fucking weak.

He looked at himself once more, at the tears that slipped past his eyes along with the whimper. He turned away, supporting himself on the dirty sink that was yellow with age. He pushed himself off, walking over toward his bed, settling down on the edge of it. He stared at the bed beside him, unoccupied. The bed that was piled with bags of weapons, clothes, and old food. He was a living pig, and his brother wasn’t here to remind him to clean up once in a while, so he never did. He looked at the bed that seemed lonely, empty… Sammy should be here. But Sammy didn’t want to be here; he’d proven that from the phone call they’d just had. Dean was alone, broken, and sick.

He went over, pushed everything off the bed. He flung his bag of clothes at the wall. He pushed the weapons to the floor. He ripped the lamp from the wall and slammed it against the twenty-year-old television, breaking it. He ripped the sheets back, grabbing his journal and a pen. “To Sammy, in my last moments,” He wrote, “Here’s Everything I Could Never Say to You.” He began scrawling tirelessly, page after page, words that he never dared speaking audibly to his brother. It ended with, “I love you, and I’m sorry.” That was the only letter he wrote. He walked back to the bathroom, tears streaming uncontrollably down his face now. Clutched onto the sink. Saw the bottle of liquor he’d just bought at some shit place down the street. Saw the bottle of pills he’d been prescribed to keep his illness at bay. He opened it, poured the whole bottle in his hand. He looked at himself in the mirror. Saw the fragmented pieces of himself. He saw the smallest, worst piece of himself in the mirror and stared at it. Observed it. Thought of what a disappointment he must be to be here, alone. Without Sammy here, he no longer saw any light in himself… Hadn’t in a long time.

That’s the way Dean operated these days, after all. It was like living in the depths of an overgrown forest. Occasionally, wind would stir the branches enough to let in a shaft of sunlight, but only for a moment, and then the gloom returned, more oppressive than before. The wind stopped stirring the branches now though. And in light of Dean’s newfound ailment, life seemed too oppressive to bear.

“Goodbye, Sammy,” Dean whispered to himself, then with a long swig of liquor, he tossed the pills into his mouth and swallowed. Sat on the floor and waited. Waited for the darkness to come, and come it did. Within minutes, his eyes began to droop… His thoughts began to blur together. His sight grew fuzzy. He slowly leaned toward the floor, and he kept his eyes open for just long enough to see a figure approaching him with haste.

“I’ll always love you, Sammy,” Dean said with a sweet smile, before drifting into oblivion.

**REALITY**

Sam came back to reality with a gasp, a splitting headache making its way to him. His head pounded with an intensity that it never had before, and he could hardly even move more than just to prop himself up. Bile rose in his throat, and he gagged, unable to stop himself.

“Sam, hey, Sammy? You don’t look so good man,” Dean asked, opening his sleepy eyes and immediately leaning over to touch him. He quickly left the bed to rush around to Sam’s side and get him upright. Just to sit up made Sam feel dizzy and imbalanced. He grabbed his head as Dean clutched onto him, keeping him upright. Dean’s voice was loud, so so loud, and it hurt, so much…

“M’head… Hurts so bad,” Sam groaned, “Needa puke.”

“Okay, man, can you get up?” Dean asked.

“No, please, don’t make me,” Sam begged.

“Want me to bring a trashcan to you?” He asked, “And some food?”

“Mhmmm,” Sam said. Dean nodded and disappeared for a while, returning a minute later with a trashcan and a plate of greasy food. Sam’s stomach turned at the smell. He gagged again. Dean put the plate down, rushing over so Sam could retch into trashcan. He made it just in time. Sam leaned over, gagging and vomiting until his throat burned. Dean stared, seeming awkward and unsure of what to do.

When Sam was finished, Dean took the trashcan from him and disappeared again, wordlessly. Sam stared at the food on the TV stand, willing it to travel to him by itself so he wouldn’t have to get up. He swore he saw the fork move, just slightly, but he knew better than to believe that. It was just the remnants of the alcohol in his system fucking with his brain. He didn’t want to get up, couldn’t get up.

The dream Sam had just had was fresh in his mind, and he reveled upon it for a moment, but not for long, because his head was still throbbing and pounding, and he couldn’t focus much. What had the dream meant? Why did it feel so real?

Dean came back, and he handed the plate to Sam. He made as little noise as possible as he settled at the far side of the bed. When he finally spoke, his voice was just above a whisper. It still made Sam’s head pound though.

“What’s got you so fucked, man? I mean, I know you got goddamn plastered last night, but I know that you hold your alcohol better than this. It’s never been this bad before, and I’ve seen you get drunker than this.”

“I don’t know,” Sam answered honestly, “Maybe I bumped my head while I was out, who knows.”

“Maybe so.” Dean wasn’t convinced. The soured expression on his face reminded Sam of his dream, the way Dean was looking at himself in the mirror with the same expression. He wanted to bring it up, but he didn’t know how. And, besides, it was just a dream… Sam told himself this multiple times over, but he just couldn’t convince himself that it was that simple.

“Somethin’ on your mind, Sammy?” Dean asked casually, keeping his voice low for Sam’s sake.

“How’ve you been lately?” Sam asked. Dean cocked an eyebrow up in suspicion.

“Fine…? Why’re you asking?” He was definitely interested in the conversation now.

“No reason, just… You’ve been acting a little off since I got back… It’s nothing,” Sam said, shoveling a forkful of food into his mouth. Dean’s suspicion grew tremendously; Sam could tell by the look on his face.

“Something you wanna say?” Dean’s voice was coated with an emotion that seemed to resemble fear, or Dean’s version of it anyway. Sam shrugged.

“Just an observation, man.”

“Okay, well, you can take your observation and stick it where the sun don’t shine, because I don’t need you poking around and finding problems where there’s obviously nothing,” Dean said, his tone almost hostile. He stood abruptly, walking toward the door. He said nothing as he left, and Sam was alone…

-

The ghost of the headache lasted for days after. Drinking didn’t nudge off the pain even in the slightest; in fact, it seemed to only intensify it. The dream was still crystal clear in Sam’s mind. Dean didn’t ask any more questions. He remained as far away from Sam as possible. He didn’t touch him or talk to him or even look at him, for that matter. It was only a confirmation of Sam’s suspicions; something was up with Dean. And Sam intended to find out what, especially with what his dream conveyed. He was not about to allow his dream to become a reality.

It wasn’t until Sam called Dean out that he actually discovered just what it was, or at least a little of what it was. It happened at dinner, the day that what was left of Sam’s headaches finally subsided.

“Any word from Dad, Bobby?” Dean had asked that night, shoving a piece of pork into his mouth.

“Nada,” was Bobby’s response, “The man obviously doesn’t want to be found; he’s made that _very_ clear. Whatever he’s up to, he definitely doesn’t want word getting out about it.”

“Yeah, so why are we still looking for him then?” Sam asked, “If he doesn’t want to be found, then let him go AWOL. Give the man what he wants.” He was just itching for Dean to make a smartass comment about it; anything in response to what Sam had just said would suffice. But, Dean pretended that Sam hadn’t said anything at all, completely overlooking his comment.

“You looked everywhere? Mortuaries, obits, arrest records, hospital records, hell, even motel records, for his aliases?” Dean was addressing Bobby.

“What do you take me for, boy? A fool? Of course I checked. Every damn record, I checked, for your daddy, but the sumbitch jus’ doesn’t wanna be found.”

“He’ll come back when he’s ready,” Sam sighed. Dean said nothing, and Sam’s rage bubbled. He slammed his fork on the table and turned to his brother, who was stuffing his face with food.

“Dean,” He said abruptly, “Can I speak to you for a moment, _privately_?”

Dean wordlessly placed his fork down, pushed his chair back, stood, and walked out of the kitchen, toward the back door leading outside. Rumsfeld started whimpering from where he was tied up at the sight of Dean. Sam followed closely behind, getting angrier by the second.

“What the fuck is going on, man?” Sam screamed as soon as they were outside.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” And, oh, _of course_ he was going to play dumb.

“You know _exactly_ what I’m talking about, Dean! You haven’t said a word to me in days, man! What is up with you? What did I do?”

“Fucking Christ,” Dean murmured to himself, pinching the bridge of his nose, “You didn’t do anything, Sam. I told you, stop looking for shit that isn’t there.”

“Except this _is_ there, Dean. One day, you’re up my ass, watching my every move, hell, even trying to follow me to the goddamned _bathroom_ , then the next, you’re acting like I’m not even there! What the hell?”

“You asked for me to stop hounding your ass, Sam! So that’s what I did! You should be happy that I’m leaving you alone! But of course, you can never be satisfied with anything I do,” Dean responded, becoming equally exasperated.

“Bullshit,” Sam spat, “You’d never just stop. You’d want to make sure I’m okay. And, after what happened, you obviously know that I’m not alright, so what made you stop?” Something in Dean’s face shifted, causing his whole angry demeanor to fall away, leaving his face slack and bleak.

“Look, Sam,” He began, his voice carefully neutral, “Stuff happened while you were gone, okay? Stuff that changed me. And, no, I’m not ready to talk about it, so don’t fucking push me, or I swear to god, I’ll start throwing punches, and it won’t be aimed for Bobby, that’s for damned sure. So, if I’ve been distant, it’s because I don’t want to fucking talk about it, okay? So stop asking all the goddamned questions.”

Sam didn’t know what to say. The taste in his mouth went sour. He suddenly felt like he needed to puke, and his headache returned, overpowering and leaving him on his knees. His eyesight blurred, and he cried out involuntarily. Dean was at his side in moments, but Sam didn’t notice. He smelled sulfur in the air as he collapsed.

-

“How is he?” A deep voice asked―Dad’s voice. It was sad and defeated, choked with tears and pain. His hair was disheveled, and his appearance just as bad; he looked as if he hadn’t slept in days. No one ever thought he’d see the day when John Winchester’s years caught up with him, but, sure enough, here he was, gray streaks littering his hair and beard, the lines on his face seeming more prominent; for the first time ever, John Winchester looked old.

“Our doctors are doing the best they can, Mr. Quincy,” The nurse with the grave face and pale blond hair said. Just that, nothing more.

“Is he going to make it?” Dad prodded, his eyes desperate. The nurse wavered for a moment, her aura of sophistication faltering. She looked at him with conflicted eyes. She saw his sadness, his desperation, and she broke.

“We’re doing everything we can,” The nurse began, “And your son is a strong one. All signs so far are pointing to a positive outcome. If there are no complications, your boy should be just fine.”

Dad’s face went slack. The tenseness in his body fell away, and a slight tired smile lifted his lips. He whispered a, “Thank you.”

Suddenly, the focus was in Dean’s hospital room. He was hooked to all kinds of machines. He looked pitifully pale… He looked dead. The only indicator that he wasn’t was the slow, rhythmic beep of the heart monitor. Dean had tried to commit suicide. And he’d almost succeeded.

-

Sam came tumbling into consciousness, a vague smell of an unidentifiable putrid odor wafting throughout the closed area. He scrunched up his nose, trying to clear it of the unpleasant scent. His head was pounding again, and he was gasping for air. Someone was shaking him as he leaned out of the side of the parked Impala; when did he get here? Sam looked up and saw his brother, who was crouching before him, who had his hands on Sam’s knees and was shaking them furiously. His eyes were wide with concern, and he was shouting Sam’s name.

“Dean,” Sam choked out, “move, I gotta―” Sam tried to warn his brother, vomit inching up his throat. Dean moved just in time for Sam to empty his stomach onto the road. Dean placed his hand on Sam’s shoulder as he continued to puke.

When he was finished, his head still hurt, more so, if that was possible. Dean began driving as soon as he knew Sam was okay enough to keep his insides, well, _inside_. His dream was crystal clear and itching to be recalled in his mind. He began to feel lightheaded and faint when he allowed himself to dwell upon it. Too clear, too real. It made him want to cry thinking of Dean like that. Sam wanted to bring it up to Dean, but how could he?

“How did I get here?” Sam asked when he could manage it.

“I put you in here. I-I wanted to get you checked out…” Dean responded almost sheepishly.

“I’m okay,” Sam said.

“I still wanna get you checked out, Sammy,” Dean responded.

“Dean, seriously, I’m good, man. This has happened before, and I was fine last time,” Sam sighed.

“Oh, yeah? What makes you so sure?” Dean challenged, and his tone made Sam’s head pound. Why did he have to talk to loudly? Sam winced.

“Because the headaches wore off, and I felt good as new,” He explained.

“When was last time?” Dean prodded, keeping his voice carefully level and quiet now.

“About a week or so ago,” Sam admitted. Dean looked at him with disbelieving, almost angry, eyes, “I was drunk, and I thought it was just the alcohol.”

“Sorry, man, but you’re not making me want to take you in any less,” Dean said, his demeanor precautious, alert, careful.

“No, listen, Dean,” He said, “It’s honestly nothing. I have, uh, dreams when it happens. Really, really painful dreams that leave me with headaches after.”

“Dreams? About what?” He asked.

“You. Dad. They feel insanely realistic. Listen, I’ll tell you everything later on if you want, but just, don’t waste a visit to the hospital on me. It’s honestly nothing.”

“I want to hear everything; you hear me? Every goddamned thing, down to the last gruesome detail,” Dean said, his voice coming off as warning.

“Okay, just take me home so I can sleep this off, yeah?”

“Okay, yeah.”

-

Dean didn’t ask about Sam’s dreams for days after his fainting episode happened. He remained at a reasonable distance from Sam, and Sam foolishly hoped that he’d just let it go. But, Dean would do nothing of the sort; he was just awaiting the ideal time to bring it up again. The ideal time came when Bobby left for a hunt, and both boys were settled on recliners in front of the television. They’d let Rumsfeld inside as soon as Bobby left, and he was dozing on Bobby’s old, ripped, and worn couch at the center of the living area. An episode of _The X Files_ had just finished. And, Sam’s head had started pounding. Sulfur had begun wafting through the air. Rumsfeld stirred in his sleep. Sam curled into himself, groaning.

-

_“Where’s your brother now, Dean-o?”_

Sam was looking into the eyes of his rapist, who’d just said Dean’s name. His rapist, who wasn’t supposed to know his brother’s name at all, because Sam had never told him. And, as Sam saw the knife plunge through his rapist’s neck, he saw the eyes flash, only for a nanosecond, not enough to catch in the heat of the moment. The eyes that flashed were not the color of human eyes; they were blue as the ocean, speckles of gold complimenting it.

 _“We are mutant, and we are many,”_ A voice in Sam’s head whispered, then he was awake.

-

“What was that, Sammy?” Dean asked, breathless and panting as he hauled a dopey, half-conscious Sam to his bed.

“Vision,” Sam tried to say, but the word came out all wrong. What came out didn’t sound English at all, and he furrowed his eyebrows. Dean placed him on his bed and allowed him a while to recollect as he sat at the edge and caught his breath.

When Sam’s thoughts were all sorted, he forced himself to say, “It was a vision.”

“A vision? Like the psychic stuff?” Dean asked, looking up at Sam with a curious, almost doubtful expression on his face.

“I-I guess. I don’t know. All I know is that I black out, and I see stuff that feels just as real as this conversation we’re having now. From what I know, some of it is stuff that’s already happened,” Sam explained, his posture hunched, his eyes set on the ground.

“What do you see?” The words were tumbling off of Dean’s lips almost as soon as Sam finished. Sam took a deep breath, but he couldn’t get enough air. He couldn’t look at Dean.

“Well, this last time, I relived the… uh… incident, and I saw his eyes,” Sam swallowed; his throat was so dry, “They weren’t human, Dean.”

“It was just a dream, Sam,” Dean reasoned, “You can’t go reading into stuff like that. It’s probably nothing.”

“No, Dean,” Sam sighed, finally looking up at his brother so he could _see_ the fear in Sam’s eyes, “I relived that night, and, he-he knew your name Dean. Not just your name, but your nickname. He called you ‘Dean-o,’ before I―before I―”

“What else do you see?” Dean asked after being silent for a long, long time. His face was set in a solemn expression, and he was no longer looking Sam’s way. He was staring at the wall. _Please don’t make me do this, Dean,_ Sam begged silently. But Dean didn’t say anything else; he just waited. Sam took a moment to contemplate just how he could present this to his brother without causing a disaster.

“I see you,” Sam finally said, “I see you trying to do really terrible things.”

“What do you see me do?” Dean pressed, and Sam shut his eyes, a tear slipping out as he remembered. When Sam didn’t answer, Dean asked it again, in an angrier, more impatient tone: “Sam, what do you see me do?”

“I see you trying to kill yourself,” Sam whispered. Dean stiffened, and then he stood and left the room.


	8. Forgetting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this chapter is kinda crappy and a bit all over the place. I had to write it in a hurry. But I apologize ahead of time, because there is a slight possibility that updates will be scarce (down to once or twice a week) for a little while. Also, updates will probably not happen for two weeks around July 10th through the 22nd because I'll be super busy. I'm sorry (Jeez, I say that a lot).

Sam didn’t dare move. He didn’t dare speak. He hardly even dared breathe. He just sat there, waiting for his brother to return. He waited and waited, letting the tears slip from his eyes and onto his cheeks and down to his neck. He waited, unmoving, silent, and with a pit in his stomach that told him that his dreams weren’t, in fact, just dreams.

When Dean returned, his face was red, and Dean’s face was never red unless he’d been crying. And that was the only confirmation Sam needed to know all that he needed to about the truth of his “dreams.” Dean sat quietly at the edge of the bed again, his posture rigid. He said nothing for a long while, and when he finally did speak, Sam wished he hadn’t.

**-TWO YEARS EARLIER-**

**DEAN**

He rode with a pistol under the empty seat beside him. Rum always rode shotgun in Sam’s place; it made him feel less lonely, knowing that the seat was occupied in its own way. Lately, though, the pistol rode shotgun too. Every night when he finally parked the Impala, he looked at it, and asked himself if that night would be the night that he’d actually do it. Then, the perfect opportunity arose. One too perfect for the self-loathing Dean Winchester to allow to pass. Dean would always be good at choosing when to die.

“The tests came back positive,” Mr. Tomas, an older man with a receding hairline and a habit of hissing when he said his s’s, “I’m very sorry, Dean. But there are treatment options. There are ways that you can live quite peaceably with this disease.”

HIV, of all fucking things. The great Dean Winchester was stopped cold and hit in the face by HIV. And the doctor who told him was foolish enough to discuss treatment options with him, as if he’d even consider it. All Dean thought about the whole time was the pistol in his car, under Sam’s seat, and he knew, tonight would be the night he’d do it.

He decided against his instincts as soon as they administered his first bottle of pills. Shooting himself would be too bloody, and he didn’t want Dad having to clean his guts out of the Impala. So, he decided to take the route that contained the least blood. Painless. Gone within a moment. As soon as he gunned the engine of the Impala, his mind was working through planning out the night.

He practically raided the liquor store down the street, and he drank his whole way back to the motel. He grabbed his last burger at some shit diner across the street. Then he came back and called Sam. All he wanted to do was enjoy the last time he’d ever talk to his brother, but the liquor twisted his goodbye into spite. Out of his anger, he flung all of his things against the wall. Then, he started writing.

Dean had written many letters addressed to his brother―had whole notebooks full of letters to his Sammy. But, this one was different. This one was him saying goodbye. This one was the last one. Dean felt his few tears falling from his eyes, and he kept them from falling onto the pages he wrote. Even in his last moments, he didn’t want Sam to know that he’d been crying. He wanted his brother to remember him as strong, not some weak bitch who cried in the face of death.

When he was finished, he was so wracked with pain and anger and remorse and self-hatred and hopelessness that he decided it was time. He walked to the bathroom, the bathroom that he thought he’d never make it out of alive. And, in his last conscious moments, in his delusional state, he thought he saw Sammy running for him, telling him he was sorry, that he wouldn’t leave again, and Dean said something to his brother that he’d never said before.

“I’ll always love you, Sammy,” He breathed, and he smiled sweetly before drifting away into a sleep that he thought he’d never wake from.

**REALITY**

Dean left out the part about his illness and about saying he loved his brother (Due to the fact that he didn’t even remember saying it; he was too delirious). He didn’t want Sam to find out, not like this. Not while he was already being given so much more information than he could handle. And, a part of Dean that he’d never admit was there didn’t want Sam to think of him as any feebler and more helpless and weak as he already did. Just relaying this to Sam made Dean feel so fucking weak and stupid for doing this to his brother. And, that was only the beginning of the self-deprecation. It really set in when he saw the way Sam reacted to absorbing all this new, dark information about his brother.

**SAM**

The air was too thin. Sam felt as if there wasn’t enough air to suffice his greedy lungs. His breathing sped, and his vision was blurred. He couldn’t look at Dean, couldn’t let him see just how completely broken this made Sam feel. He couldn’t let Dean see just how weak his brother was. He couldn’t let Dean see the look in his eyes, because it would only further break him. And Sam had done enough of that.

“Dean,” Sam breathed, trying to keep any excess emotions from getting through, “I’m so sorry.”

“No,” Dean’s voice was firm, “Don’t put this on yourself. This is on me. This is for me to carry, not you. This is not your fault.” But it was, to Sam at least. He’d left Dean to go to Stanford, knowing, even if it was subconsciously, that Dean wouldn’t react well to his brother leaving. It was always Sam and Dean, in it together or not at all, and then suddenly, Sam decided to leave. This was Sam’s fault, and he was only making it worse with his incessant tears and hyperventilation. So, Sam made himself stop crying. It took a moment, but he did. Then, he covered his emotions, and he looked to his brother, who was staring at the floor, his hands in his lap. _Beautiful_ , Sam thought.

“Dean,” Sam said, his voice more level now, “Is that the night you called me?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, his voice just audible enough for Sam to catch. Sam inhaled deeply.

“I’m here now,” Sam said, “Just you and me, together, okay? We’re in this together,” Sam spoke the words he’d heard his brother say plenty of times before when he was feeling down.

“Okay,” Dean whispered.

“I mean it, Dean,” Sam said, touching his brother’s shoulder ever so lightly, “This time, I really mean it. I’m not leaving you again. Ever.”

Dean looked up at his brother with measuring eyes, and when he saw the truth there, he said, “Thanks, Sam.” Those words said so much more than Sam could ever think to comprehend, but a part of him, the part that mattered, knew enough about the ambiguity of it, the amount of hidden messages behind it.

“Let’s go get a drink, yeah? On me. I won’t even get drunk this time,” Sam smiled at his brother, trying to keep it steady for as long as possible. Dean nodded.

“Okay, let’s go.”

-

Sam doesn’t quite recall the last time he’d witnessed his brother getting drunk off his ass. But, tonight, Dean didn’t hold back. He told Linda to “keep ‘em comin’,” and it seemed to take all night for Dean’s words to start slurring together. Sam kept a water in his hands at all time in order to refrain from joining his brother. Bobby wasn’t home, and Sam promised. But this didn’t stop his intoxicated brother from offering.

“C’mon, Sammy, have a drink. Let’s get drunk together. We’ve never done that before,” He chuckled and nudged Sam’s shoulder. Drunk Dean was very touchy; he’d been touching Sam all night.

“Probably with good reason. Both of us wasted would be a nightmare,” Sam snorted, “Besides, I have to bring your ass home.”

“Lindy can bring us home,” Dean raised an eyebrow at Linda, who huffed and rolled her eyes in response, “Please, Sam.”

“No, Dean, c’mon, man, I don’t wanna.”

“Fine,” Dean pouted. Now that he was drunk, there was a certain innocent beauty in his brother. His lips puckered out more, and they seemed pinker. That same shit-eating smile became a recurring sight. His eyes were glassy, and so much greener. His cheeks were a constant flustered pink. The sight took Sam’s breath away.

It was well past midnight when Sam finally threw Dean in the car. He was still shouting goodbyes to everyone at the bar.

“Aww, Sammy, you’re such a party pooper. Anyone’s ever told you that?” Dean slurred as Sam strapped Dean in and gunned the engine. This was the first time he’d be driving the Impala (“If you fuck her up, I’m taking it out of your ass”).

“Yeah, you have, a couple times now,” Sam chuckled, turning out of the parking lot.

“Hey, Sam?”

“Yeah, Dean?” Sam asked, his mind only half with his brother. The other half was preoccupied with how he’d manage to get his brother up the stairs and to his own room.

“You’re a good little brother,” Dean’s voice held a certain amount of admiration that Sam had never heard before.

“Thanks, Dean,” Sam said emptily.

“A pretty good-looking one too,” Dean went on, “I think you might be the more attractive one here.” Sam’s attention was definitely on Dean now.

“We both know that’s not true, Dean,” Sam laughed at the ridiculousness of what Dean was saying; if he’d been sober, Dean would’ve never said that.

“It is true. You’re real good-lookin’, Sammy,” Dean said, then after a beat he shifted topics, “You always say I’ve got nice lips when you’re drunk, Sammy. You mean that?”

Sam choked on his own saliva. All the color drained from his face. _Did he really say that aloud every time he was drunk?_ He coughed and said nothing, hoping Dean would forget. But of course, he didn’t.

“Well? Do you, Sammy?” He prompted, and when Sam glanced over at him, he saw a knowing smile gracing his brother’s lips.

“I suppose so, yeah,” Sam breathed, his words coming out all too quickly.

“You wanna kiss ’em?” Dean asked, that smile still on his face. Sam had to fight the urge to slam on the brakes. Instead, he floored the gas pedal, wanting to get home as soon as possible. He tried to keep his cool, though, and asked, “Dude, how drunk are you?” But his voice was unsure, and it didn’t sound convincing at all.

“Drunk enough to forget all this tomorrow, “Dean chortled, “You didn’t answer the question, Sam. Answer it.”

“No, you’re my brother, dude,” Sam’s voice was still unsure, “And, in your own words, ‘that would be sick.’”

“Liar,” Dean called Sam out, and Sam’s palms were sweaty. He turned into the scrap yard and pulled up to the place Dean parked as quickly as he could.

“Whatever,” Sam lied.

“You wanna kiss me, huh?” He teased.

“No.”

“Liar. You do.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“Why are you so set on this, Dean?” Sam asked, sighing as he opened the car door and jogged to Dean’s side to get him out. When he tried to help Dean unstrap his seatbelt, Dean slapped him away.

“I can do it m’self,” He said, “’m not helpless.”

Sam stood back and waited for his brother to fumble around until he gave up. When he let Sam unbuckle him, he whispered in his brother’s ear, “You gonna kiss me?”

“No.” Sam was breathless. Dean’s voice was knowing, almost seductive, and this was _so_ much more than Sam could handle.

“Do it,” Dean whispered again, and Sam could smell the alcohol on his breath and the faint scent of the mint gum he’d been chewing on.

“No, Dean,” Sam protested, and when he went to pull back, Dean caught his arm. It seemed to come as a surprise to Dean too, because when Sam looked at him, Dean’s eyes were wide and confused. Then, after a moment, he regained his composure. He pulled Sam close, and Sam tried to resist, he really did, but Dean grabbed his face and forced Sam’s lips onto his.

At first, there was an uneasy twist in Sam’s stomach, and then, once he tasted the liquor on his brother’s breath, and the overwhelming smell of _Dean_ , around him, he melted into it, and he welcomed the touch, for the first time since his rape. His resistance stopped. He let his brother kiss him, sloppily, drunkenly. He savored this feeling―the way his brother’s lips engulfed his so knowingly, as if they’d done this many times before, the way they just _knew_ what to do, the way Dean was so willing. Dean’s hands tangled in Sam’s hair, and he pushed Sam’s face closer. And Sam didn’t know when he’d stop, not until he heard Rumsfeld’s bark.

Sam was brought crashing back to reality, and, _oh god, he was kissing his brother._ He jerked away from Dean, hitting his head on the roof of the car. He stumbled back as quickly as possible, not knowing what to do with himself. When he looked at his brother, there was a dopey smile plastered on his face.

“Wow, Sammy, didn’t know you could kiss like _that_ ,” Dean said, “Better than any girl I’ve ever kissed.”

“L-let’s get you inside, okay?” Sam stuttered then slowly approached his brother.

“Mk, gettin’ a lil tired anyhow,” Dean yawned then reached up for Sam to pick him up. Sam shouldered his weight, and Dean stumbled inside.

Sam led a half-conscious Dean inside and up to his room. Once he’d gotten Dean inside (with some effort), he asked if Dean needed to get changed, or if he wanted to wait until morning. Dean insisted on getting changed tonight. No matter how messy Dean’s room was, he always insisted on keeping himself immaculately clean. He’d even made sure to shower before they went drinking.

“Where’s your clothes?” Sam asked, and Dean pointed to the chest cattycorner to his bed. On top of it, Sam saw a pile of clothes Dean had already set there to change into when he got home.

“Can you do this by yourself?” Sam asked, bringing his brother’s clothes to him. Dean shook his head, which came as a surprise to Sam, because Dean never admitted to needing help without putting up a fight first.

“Need you to do it for me, Sammy,” He said, “If you’re okay with that. I don’t… don’t want you to be uncomfortable.” Sam’s heart swelled at that, because even in his drunkenness, a part of Dean was still concerned about Sam.

“Dude, you’re my brother. It’s not weird,” Sam laughed, but he felt extremely uneasy as he said it. He looked at the pile and saw that Dean had been careful to not place a pair of boxers in the pile. He was grateful. Dean began unbuttoning his jeans, but he failed, so Sam had to do it. His breath caught as he did it, because he was _so close_ to Dean, and this was the closest he’d been to anyone since…

He forced the thoughts out of his mind, because this was Dean, not Creep, and Sam was completely safe. He quickly unbuttoned Dean’s jeans and pulled them down, careful not to touch him too much, because it only sped Sam’s heart and made him feel lightheaded and afraid. Dean was silent and rigid.

When Sam pulled Dean’s shirt off and saw the amassing amounts of freckles littering his torso, Sam was taken aback. It seemed that every time he saw Dean shirtless, it was like the first time. It always amazed Sam how absolutely perfect Dean’s body was. He tried to keep his eyes from wandering as he pulled off Dean’s shirt and replaced it with another. Dean was still silent, and Sam looked up at him momentarily, only to find Dean staring.

“I’m sorry,” Dean said quietly, “You didn’t deserve what those bastards did to you. You didn’t deserve to lose Jess, even if you were unfaithful. I’m sorry for hurting you, Sam. You deserve so much more.” Most of what Dean said was jumbled and came out as almost gibberish, but Sam caught enough to understand what Dean was trying to say. Sam only nodded and continued to pull Dean’s clothes on.

Within 15 minutes, he’d assisted Dean in brushing his teeth (He was annoyingly persistent about doing so) and tucked him into bed without many issues. He was shutting out Dean’s light when he heard Dean speak through his half-lucid state.

“Goodnight, Sammy.”

“Goodnight, Dean.”

It was the first time Dean had said that since they were children. Sam smiled as he shut the door behind himself and meandered to his room.

Sam lay awake nearly all night thinking of Dean’s lips. He replayed his brother’s drunken kiss over and over in his head, remembering every small detail. The way Dean’s fingers absentmindedly tangled in his hair. The way that Dean being his brother didn’t seem like an undefeatable obstacle anymore. The way Dean seemed perfectly okay with kissing Sam. Sam now knew what his brother’s lips tasted like, and the best part was, Dean probably wouldn’t remember any of it. It would be his little secret. Even as Sam told himself this, he felt unbearably guilty for what he’d allowed his brother to do.

-

“Sam! Sammy! Sam!” A hoarse voice broke Sam from the slumber he’d just recently fallen victim to. He was upright within seconds, swinging his feet over the bed and running to Dean’s room before he could process what he was doing. Dean. Dean was in trouble.

Sam ran to Dean’s room and opened the door. Dean was still screaming and thrashing about the bed. “Sam! Sam! Please, Sam! Where are you?”

“Shh, I’m here, Dean. I’m right here,” Sam said, kneeling beside Dean’s bed and placing one hand in Dean’s (sweaty) mess of hair, and the other on his stomach. He ran his fingers over his hair and kept whispering to Dean that he was here, that he was right here. It took a while before Dean actually came to.

“S-Sam?” Dean asked, opening his eyes and blinking slowly. His body was coated in sweat. He grabbed Sam’s hand that was on his stomach and clutched it as tightly as possible. Sam continued to tell Dean that he was here. He smiled sweetly at his brother as he slowly regained his grip on reality.

“Sammy,” Dean kept saying, over and over, like he was tasting the name on his lips. Like it was a lullaby that he needed to sing every night to fall asleep. Like it was the only thing he knew.

“It was just a dream,” Sam said, still stroking Dean’s hair. Dean’s breathing slowed to a normal pace.

“Thank you,” Dean said, “Please don’t leave.”

“I won’t, okay? I’m right here. I’m not gonna leave you.”

“Please stay in here,” Dean said, his voice weak and afraid. It was something Sam had rarely heard from Dean.

“Okay, I won’t,” Sam responded, and he wasn’t going to. Not until Dean fell asleep again.

“I feel okay when you’re here,” Dean whispered, as if it was some unfathomable secret that he dared not speak aloud.

“I do too, Dean,” Sam admitted. And it was true. Dean was the only person that Sam felt completely safe around.

Dean started saying Sam’s name again. Over and over, slower and slower, until he finally found sleep. Sam sneaked back to his room. He fell asleep quickly, with the sound of Dean’s name on his lips.


	9. Jobs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains mature themes and descriptions. Read at your own risk.

Small sounds unintentionally fell from parted lips. Hands searched desperately, hastily along bodies, with the intention of touching everything, of  _knowing_  everything. Soft words of love and need wafted through the air, nestling in the space they shared. Bodies melded against one another, moving in sync.

“Dean,” Sam exhaled, all morals and rationality long forgotten. He moved his lips to pepper kisses from the underneath of Dean’s jawline all the way down to his shoulders. He latched onto the skin covering the dip behind his collarbone, and Dean’s breath speeded. His hands tangled in Sam’s mess of hair, tugging just slightly. His breathing was heavy and deep, as if he couldn’t suck in enough air.

Dean tugged Sam’s hair, encouraging him back up to kiss his lips. Sam obeyed, and he reveled in the way his brother’s lips felt against his―soft and welcoming. However, when given just the right push, Dean became almost vicious with need, attacking Sam’s lips with the kind of hunger that ate away at Sam’s last morsel of self-control. And, all it took for Sam to completely delve into his darkest desires was one roll of his hips on Dean’s lap.

Dean sucked in a sharp breath, his hands clenching onto Sam’s hair. “ _Do that again_ ,” He said. The words were more of a request than an order, as Dean was never the commanding kind (that was always Sam’s forte), but Sam obeyed nonetheless.

“Mmm, you like this?” Sam asked, his words swallowed into Dean’s mouth. Dean moaned in response, his hands moving from Sam’s hair to his neck and face, where he pushed Sam’s mouth closer to his. Sam moved his mouth back to his brother’s neck. His name was on Dean’s lips.

Dean was quite the sight like this―eyes screwed shut, lips parted ever so slightly and kissed out, his hands grasping onto whatever of Sam’s face and neck he could get ahold of, his hair disheveled ever so perfectly. Sam cherished the way his brother looked at this moment.

“What do you want me to do?” Sam asked against his brother’s neck, and Dean could hardly form a coherent sentence when his brother was doing this to him, but he managed anyway.

“So much,” He whispered breathlessly, “Fuck, so so much.” It was quiet for a moment, then a voice that wasn’t Dean said, “You’re so beautiful.”

-

**REALITY**

Sam still tasted Dean when he awoke. He still smelled Dean around him―on his pillow, on his sheets, on his mattress, in his room. Dean was everywhere but nowhere, and it left Sam’s heart aching and swelling all at the same time. His dream played endlessly in his mind, and god, how would Sam even face his brother after a dream like that? Sam’s cock was swollen and throbbing, reminding him constantly of the dream he’d just had. He wanted—he  _needed_  to make this go away, and there was only one way to do that.

He stumbled to the bathroom to fix his… well, problem… then he was off to brush his teeth and hopefully brush away the clarity of the absolutely sinful dream he’d just had about his own brother.

Much to Sam’s dismay, Dean was already in the kitchen when he walked down the stairs, downing a glass of water. His Adams apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed, and it took everything within Sam to keep from staring. He looked effortlessly beautiful, even though his eyes were bloodshot and pained, his shirt was buttoned all wrong, his face was too pale, and his hair was sticking up at every angle. Sam still found him perfect like this―hungover and cranky.  
“What?” Dean snapped at Sam, and Sam realized he’d been staring, even though he told himself he wouldn’t. He shook his head and walked over to the living room, taking a seat on the loveseat. Rumsfeld climbed onto his lap, and Sam patted his head. Rumsfeld’s tail thumped gratefully.  
Sam didn’t see Dean again until dinner that night. Sam couldn’t really cook, so he went out and grabbed some insanely greasy cheeseburgers from down the street and a pie for Dean. When he came back, Dean was waiting for him.  
“You took the Impala?” He asked, a tinge of annoyance still hiding in his voice.  
“No. Found a pair of keys to a truck Bobby fixed up out in the scrap yard,” Sam said, “I got some food. Cheeseburgers and pie.” Dean’s face lightened at that, and Sam snorted. Pie made everything better for Dean.  
Dean shoveled food into his mouth endlessly, moaning at the deliciousness of it. Sam was more bothered than he should’ve been by it.

After dinner, Dean settled onto Bobby’s recliner with a book. Sam was taken back by it.

“I didn’t know you read,” Sam commented, “I don’t think I’ve ever even seen you with a book in your hands unless it was for research. And even then you tossed it out within 15 minutes of opening it.”

“Started this book last time I was here. It’s pretty good,” Dean explained blandly, and he opened it. Sam didn’t catch the title, and he didn’t bother asking. And Sam wanted to leave Dean to reading, he really did, but he couldn’t stop himself from speaking.

“Hey, uh, I was thinking,” Sam said, “Maybe we should go hunting soon. Go with Bobby next time he offers or go on our own hunt. Like old times.” Dean dog eared his page and put the book down, his eyes shooting up to meet Sam’s. They narrowed, trying to read his expression.

“What makes you wanna do that?” He asked.

“I dunno. Just a thought. I mean, we’ve been at Bobby’s for a while now, and sitting on our asses isn’t getting us any closer to Dad,” Sam shrugged.

“You wanna find Dad now?” Dean’s voice was incredulous.

“It’s been a while. I miss the old man,” Sam smiled weakly. Dean shook his head and looked back down to his book, turning it to the page he’d marked. He opened his mouth, and Sam knew that whatever he was about to say would be the end of their conversation.

“Next time Bobby finds something, we’ll take the job off his hands.” Sam nodded even though Dean couldn’t see him and stood, walking away. He didn’t sleep that night.

-

Almost as soon as Bobby got back home, he was complaining about all the jobs he was finding. Dean asked him for background information on each, and without telling Sam which he’d chosen, he took one of the jobs off Bobby’s hands and told Sam to pack up.  
Sam was grateful for what his brother had done for him, but he was also insanely apprehensive. It wasn’t so much the job as it was Dean that was getting him so riled up. He’d been acting peculiar lately―overlooking Sam, answering him with short, annoyed grunts, and avoiding him. A part of Sam was concerned that his brother remembered the night from a couple of weeks back, but he eventually chalked it up to Dean being, well, Dean. And, after all, after what Dean had told him a couple nights prior about what happened during the two years Sam was gone, it would be classic Dean behavior to avoid Sam after a revelation like that. So, Sam overlooked it. He pretended it wasn’t there. He instead focused all his energy on the landscape flying by outside the Impala. They’d shed 400 miles before Sam said anything.

“Where we headed, Dean?” He asked it as nonchalantly as he could manage, which wasn’t very nonchalant at all, but it would suffice for Dean.

He grunted out a “Washington,” and Sam’s head bobbed up and down as he digested the information and mustered the courage to ask his next question.

“What’s the story?” He said, “What’s so strange about it?”

“Bobby thinks it’s a werewolf,” Was Dean’s (quite curt) response. Sam internally winced at the sharpness of the words. Sam said nothing else to his brother that day, not unless absolutely necessary. He didn’t complain about Dean’s loud music. He didn’t complain about the genre of it either. He didn’t complain when Dean pulled up to a sketchy diner to eat that night. He didn’t complain when Dean got two separate motel rooms. He complied wordlessly to Dean’s wishes, even if it was with silent tears sliding down his cheeks.

-

Dean compiled a list of all the research he’d done on this werewolf and had it sitting on the table with a broken leg in Sam’s room by the next morning. Sam heard him bring it in, but he decided against saying anything. Sam passed an uninterested look over the pile of research when he awakened the next morning, and instead decided to go out for breakfast by himself. He could use the exercise anyhow. So he threw on some clothes and shoes, brushed his teeth, and combed through his hair, and his hand was on the doorknob when someone knocked. Sam knew it wasn’t Dean.

His body froze where it was on the handle. He was too afraid to move. He only dared to minutely shift his body so he could peer through the peephole on the door. It was a maid. His body relaxed.

“You need some towels, honey?” She asked, her voice rough with disinterest.

“Uh, no, ma’am, I’m good for today,” Sam shouted out, still slightly shaken up.

“’Course ya do, Sammy,” She grinned sickly and then with a small flick of her fingers, the door was in pieces. Sam stumbled back and then fell to the floor, his eyes wide with fear as he curled up to avoid the pieces flying about.

“Who are you?” Sam asked, his voice quivering. He forced himself to stand again. The maid stepped inside, brushing the chips of what was the door off of her shoulder.

“You don’t remember me, Sam? Shall I refresh your memory?” Her smile made Sam’s stomach twist. He had a vague notion of who this thing was, but he dared not speak the words aloud. He was silent.

“Are you not aware of those glorious moments I spent inside your ass? Or should I redemonstrate so you’re sober enough to remember it this time?” Sam felt the color drain from his face. His stomach was on the floor. His mouth dried. The air was stolen from him. He had no words.

“And, this time, dear old brother is all but avoiding you, so we’ll go uninterrupted,” She continued, her eyes gleaming with a kind of evil Sam didn’t know existed. He felt the bruise of her words settling in on him, and he realized that he was totally, truthfully, and completely stuck.

“What are you?” Sam asked the only words that would form in his mouth. And the maid chuckled, and her body twisted in a way that Sam had never seen before. What was once the maid transformed into the one person Sam had hoped he’d never see again. Rodney.

“I-I killed you,” Sam choked out, his body surging into fight or flight mode at the sight of his rapist’s body standing before him.

“Ah, but that’s the thing, Sammy. You—wow, this is quite embarrassing—well, you didn’t kill me, Sam. Little old knives never work on me. You’ve gotta think a little deeper than that, bucko.” The smile on its lips was tantalizing, patronizing. It was a smile he’d only seen on the creatures they hunt.

“Dear old Dad and Dean killed my family. So, now, I’m gonna ruin the only thing they hold as worth something. That’s you, Sam. And, oh, boy, aren’t you quite fun to ruin.”

“Why’d they let you live?” Sam asked, reveling in the fact that whatever this thing was, it enjoyed fucking around before it got to business.

“I threw out some bullshit, ‘I’ll be better. I won’t kill,’ at your brother, and he stupidly let me go. I was only a child then, after all. Or at least, that’s who I was mimicking,” The thing chuckled, and  _of course_  Dean gave a monster the benefit of the doubt, especially because he thought it was a child.  _Of course_  he chose to see good in something that was only considered one thing in this family, and that’s a monster. And monsters deserve nothing but death, Sam had learned that now.

“His mistake,” The lips of his rapist curled around the words as he spoke them, and he stepped closer to Sam. Sam remained stoic, unmoving. Fear pulses inside him. The monster before him caressed his face and stared at him with eyes filled with nothing but revenge.

“I know what it’s like to want revenge,” Sam said.

“Oh, you do?” The creature was anything but interested with what Sam was saying.

“Yeah. I want revenge for my girlfriend’s death. For my mom’s death. I want to fucking  _kill_  that son of a bitch that ruined my family. I want to rip his heart from his chest. I want to see him suffer like Dean and I have our entire lives. But I’m not going to make it a whole family ordeal. I’m not going to murder his children or his wife or anyone he cares about, for that matter—not unless I’m given a reason,” Sam said, “I’m going to go after the creature, and I’m going to deal with him personally. Because ruining his family will only make him angrier, and it will only make him more determined to find us and kill us.”

“Oh, I hear what you’re saying, Sammy, I really do,” The creature began, running its disgustingly long fingernail over Sam’s Adam’s apple, “But ruining John Winchester’s family is all too entertaining.”

Then, the thing pushed Sam harshly onto his bed. Climbed on top of him. Began sucking at his neck and collarbones. Sam didn’t want to enjoy it, he really didn’t, but his body was disobeying him. His attempts to push his rapist off of him instead conformed to gentle nudges. His cries for help instead became moans of pleasure. Especially whenever it began working over his jeans.

“Get… off of me,” Sam panted, his body doing everything he begged it not to.

“Is that what you  _really_  want, Sam? After all that frustration Dean’s caused you? After all that pent up anger inside? After all that sexual frustration you’ve built up?” It taunted him, and its words made it no easier for Sam to resist giving in. This time was different; this time Sam wasn’t so wracked with pain and guilt that he couldn’t think straight. This time there was no trace of alcohol in his system. This time it wasn’t new to Sam. This time a part of Sam—a deep, dark, twisted part of him that he didn’t want to admit existed—wanted it. That part of Sam wanted him to give in, because maybe it wouldn’t be so intolerable. That part of Sam thought that maybe he could come to wholly enjoy it if he gave in. That part of Sam thought that maybe it would end his suffering over the subject. That part of Sam just wanted the pain to go away for a moment.

“Yes,” Sam lied, “It’s what I really want.”

“I don’t believe you.”

-

Within 30 minutes, Sam’s clothes were stripped from his body. He had long since forgotten about his desires to give in. As soon as the creature began touching him in those places he wanted no one to visit, the wholeness of the situation set in. This thing was  _raping_  him. And he didn’t want this. No matter how much he tried to pretend it was Dean, he couldn’t convince himself. And the fun ended as soon as he came to that realization.

“S-Stop it,” Sam grunted as the thing with Creep’s face wrapped its mouth around him and began bobbing his head up and down.

“Mmm,” It hummed.

“Stop,” Sam’s voice was clearer now, “You sick, disgusting thing. I said,  _stop it_.” It was to no avail. The anger bubbled inside Sam, but he was too helpless to take advantage of it; something was keeping him glued to the bed. And, as he lay there staring at the ceiling, the negativity crept in. He deserved this for what he did to Jess.

Then, there was a knock on the door.


	10. A Tidbit of Happiness

One of Sam’s favorite things to do each morning on his way to classes was creating lives. He’d hear or see names as he walked across campus to his next class, and his mind began working. With this particular activity, he constructed entire neighborhoods of people, each with a life, with families, with siblings, with troubles, with heartache, with mistakes, with _feelings._ That was the thing with Sam; he didn’t see people as others did. He thought of each passerby as a human being, with feelings and with memories and a past, not just faces that would fade into oblivion. And maybe that was why he was always so kind.

With a job like Sam’s family’s, it was hard to think of everyone as a person. The job became about just killing things, not about worrying about the people affected by that particular thing. And so, it was hard for Sam to do his “job”. And maybe that’s why he despised hunting so much.

Sam’s game was passed down to Jess. Each morning they found a name of the day for one another. They created a life for that person, covering all aspects of who he/she was and the people he or she was surrounded by. It sometimes distracted Sam from his work. But he loved it. And, maybe in some alternate universe, he could’ve been a great writer someday. Maybe he could’ve escaped the life he was destined to live, carrying out the family business.

And maybe that’s why he enjoyed creating other universes for people―because he thought his was so undesirable. His past was horrific, and it haunted his dreams nearly every night. So, instead of spending all his time wallowing in his memories, he made lives. And when one’s life is so undesirable, it’s hard _not_ to create a fictional life.

Sam still sometimes played his game. He’d see a name on television, or in the newspaper, or hear a name in the bar, and his mind would automatically start working out a life for them. Even in drunkenness, it was quite an entertaining game to play. Sometimes Sam created an other-worldly life for his brother too.

Sam’s perfect life for Dean wasn’t as one would expect though. He tried tirelessly to create a life for his brother that he thought would best suit him, but it was to no avail. So, the only aspect of the alternate universe Dean he’d covered was that he was happy. With Sam. And Dad.

Sam tried to create the perfect life for Dad, but it was too easy for him. All Dad wanted was Mom; it was quite simple to see, as John Winchester spent all of his sons’ lives chasing after his past life that was oh-so-perfect. And, plus, it made Sam too angry to think of his father. So he didn’t.

Sam also spent hours thinking about the man who raped him. He tried to think up a life for him. One that left him so scarred that he felt the need to force himself upon someone else. And, Sam wasn’t angry at the man who did this to him, not before, at least. Not until he knew that the man who raped him was no man at all, but rather a _thing._

And, as Dean opened the door, the thing crashed through the window and fled. Sam was left with his pants down, a half-limp dick on display for his brother to see. There were no tears at first, only shock and anger.

Dean’s face was mildly disgusted but mostly confused when he opened the door. He saw his brother, his brother’s _dick_ , the horrified look on Sam’s face, and then the broken window. And then his eyes became sharper, hooded. Sam could practically see the anger beginning to roll off his brother.

“Who?” Was all he said.

“Not who,” Sam began, hurrying to tug on his pants again, “What.”

“That’s how the bastard’s still alive,” Dean growled, and he walked across the room to the shattered window, looking around for the creature that just left his room.

“I think it was a shapeshifter,” Sam said, “He morphed from a maid into… _him._ ”

Then Dean’s shoulders went slack. His anger evaporated. He turned on his heel to face his brother, nothing but pure and terrifying concern on his face. He sauntered over to Sam, careful not to touch him. He bent down, his knee popping as he did so. Sam looked down, ashamed.

“You good?” The words Dean spoke were nonchalant, but his voice held nothing less than genuine worry for his brother.

“Yeah, mostly just angry,” Sam shrugged, and it was true. Or at least, that’s what he told himself.

“We’re gonna find it, okay, Sam? And we’re gonna kill that bastard, for good this time.”

Sam nodded silently, tears he promised he wouldn’t shed rolling down his cheeks.

-

Dean insisted that they sleep in the Impala for the rest of the hunt. Easier than squatting in some ratty motel, he said. But Sam knew that it was only because in Dean’s mind, the Impala was the safest place Sam could be. And, it probably was, in all honesty.

When Dean woke the next morning and rose from his position (which was sprawled out on the front seat of the car), his golden hair shone in the sunlight, looking almost translucent in the morning light. His eyes were the color of the sparkling emerald lake Dean had taken him fishing the spring Sam turned 13. Sam hadn’t slept a wink, yet he felt wide awake. And when his brother rubbed his eyes and blinked tiredly at him, Sam felt his heart beginning to swell. _Dean._

Sam had spent all night creating lives. He’d see someone walking in the distance, hear a hoot of drunken laughter, see a girl searching for her next customer to service, and he’d create a life. Dean kept the radio at a low rumble, so Sam could still hear it. And he created lives for the artists whose voices were leaking out and filling the cramped space. It was all he could do to keep himself from remembering.

And sometimes, he failed at keeping himself occupied. He’d remember the hands grasping at his hair. He’d remember the way those same hands pushed his head down over his cock, causing Sam to gag. He’d remember the sickly moans escaping the creature’s lips, sounds that filled the room and filled Sam’s head so that the time and space around him melted into that time with his rapist. And, he became filled with hatred, so much hatred for the thing that did this to him. He wanted to kill it―the thing that had caused so much damage to him. More than he wanted to avenge Jess’s death, more than he wanted to give Dad a piece of his mind, more than he wanted Dean, more than he wanted anything. And that affected Sam in the most negative way possible. He began to lose himself as the night went on.

Those lives he created for the people he saw or heard slowly conformed to imagining the way it would feel to watch the life drain from his rapist’s eyes as he shoved a knife through him. He imagined the way it would feel to have that much power over it, to hurt it the way it hurt Sam. He was bloodthirsty, but just for that _thing._ Or so he told himself.

This is why, when Sam saw Dean’s head poke up from the front seat, he was overjoyed. Because when he saw his brother, he felt his sanity slowly come drifting back to him. He felt the overwhelming need for murder slip into an almost peaceful melancholy. He felt like _Sam_ again, not some murderous monster that was no better than the thing that had hurt him. And Sam loved his brother even more for that.

-

Since a young child, Sam had always enjoyed cemeteries. Just walking along the paved pathway and watching the names pass and blur and merge into one another filled him with peace. It reminded him that in the end, no matter who we are, we’re all the same when we rest in our graves: dust and bones. And Sam liked that. It was one of the only things that made him feel _normal_. So, this is why, when they passed by an unmarked cemetery while rolling away the miles, Sam made Dean stop. Dean did with little complaint, despite his absolute hatred for the places.

And, when Sam climbed out of the Impala, Dean did something that took Sam by complete and utter surprise. He followed Sam’s actions. He got out of the car and walked beside his brother, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders tense. His eyes stayed on Sam as he walked. And Sam could feel his brother’s eyes practically burning a hole in his side, but he said nothing. He knew how unnerved cemeteries made Dean feel. All he wanted to do was take his brother’s hand and lace their fingers through one another. But he didn’t.

“I heard you last night,” Dean remarked almost inaudibly as he and Sam began their trek through the lines of tombstones, each one etched with love from their relatives who’ve probably long forgotten them by now, “making lives.”

“I didn’t know you still did that,” He went on.

“Old habits die hard, I guess,” Sam shrugged, keeping his eyes straight ahead. The clouds polluted the blue sky with their ever darkening grayness. It made Sam’s heart heavy. Was it going to rain today?

“You only ever did that when something was bothering you,” Dean said, almost as if he wasn’t addressing Sam, but to one of the bodies buried in their underground prison. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” was Sam’s immediate response. His voice was hard, cutting, and if Dean was hurt by it, he didn’t show it. He kept his hands deep in his pockets.

“What do you like so much about these places anyway?” He changed the subject a couple minutes later, “They’ve always given me the creeps.”

“They keep me calm,” Sam sighed, moving his gaze to read the names passing, “Making lives is a lot easier when you’re in a place like this.”

“What’s his life then?” Dean asked, pointing to a tombstone that read, “Orville Miller, 1935-1986, Beloved Husband.”

“He was an asshole,” Sam spit out immediately, “I mean, with a name like Orville, why _wouldn’t_ you be an asshole? That’s a bitch name.”

Dean coughed out a laugh at that. “What else?”

“He was a drinker. He disappeared on his family for weeks at a time just to fuck women. He hated his job, and he’s fucked his employees multiple times. His wife had her whole church praying for his deliverance. His son was the one who finally pulled the trigger on him. He’s in prison now, but he doesn’t regret it. The son of a bitch’s wife was the only one to attend his funeral.”

“Holy fuck, Sam,” Dean breathed, “Where do you get this shit from?”

“Notice how unsentimental the message on the tombstone is. He was only a ‘beloved husband,’ and, if he died in ’86, then he was 51, and by then he should’ve had children. So he should’ve been a ‘beloved father’ as well. I dunno, it just makes you think.”

“I don’t know how you notice some of this stuff, Sammy,” Dean said, “I never will.”

Sam shrugged, “Everybody’s different.”

Dean nodded and let out a heavy, labored breath, fixing his gaze on his feet as they moved throughout the graveyard. His eyebrows furrowed as he dove deep into his thoughts, and he chewed on his lip. Sam wondered what he was thinking about. But he didn’t say anything. Instead, he took a right in the graveyard in search of more names. They walked in silence for a while.

“She was smart,” Dean suddenly said, and when Sam looked at him, he was looking at one of the graves, stopped in front of it. “Smartest in her class,” He went on, “She liked to read a lot, and when she had a question, she always researched it. But, she messed up. She did some pretty bad stuff, and it got her into some trouble. She made friends with the wrong people, and they got her killed. She was only twenty-one.”

“The whole town mourned for her,” Sam added, “And they used her as an example when they pushed for all that abstinence shit.”

“Sad,” Dean sighed, staring down at the grave, “You don’t realize how much death really affects people when you’re constantly surrounded by it.”

“But when you’re surrounded by people who are already dead, it kinda hits you,” Sam said for him, “That’s why I hate hunting but love these places.”

Dean looked at Sam. His eyes were filled with something, and Sam could see words sitting on Dean’s lips, almost leaving them, but he swallowed them down. He looked away from Sam, and for some reason, it made Sam’s heart ache.

“I love you, Dean,” Sam called out, not realizing the words had escaped his mouth until it was too late. Dean froze in place. He whirled around to face Sam, his eyes clouded and burdened.

“What?” Dean asked, his eyes narrowing on Sam’s face. But Sam knew Dean had heard him perfectly. A single raindrop fell onto Sam’s nose.

“I love you.” He whispered it now. And that was when Dean did the most unexpected, and maybe the most foolish, thing Sam had ever experienced in his entire life. He closed the space between himself and his brother. And he took Sam’s face in his hands and smashed their lips together and froze like that, as if he didn’t know what to do next. Sam’s eyes were wide open and staring at his brother in bewilderment. Then, his brain processed what was happening, and his eyes fluttered shut, his hands moving to rest at the small of Dean’s back. He pushed his brother closer and began to move his lips, wrapping them around Dean’s, putting all his love and all his suppressed feelings into this moment.

As his lips softly took his brother’s between them, he thought, “I love you.” As his tongue softly poked at Dean’s lips, he thought, “I need you.” And, as Dean’s mouth opened and Sam’s tongue went in and explored his mouth, he thought, “I’m never leaving you.” He moved his hands up to Dean’s hair, pushing his face closer, and he thought, “You are everything to me.” Dean gently pushed against Sam, probably because he was too close, Sam assumed. But, that was when he realized that the push wasn’t gentle. And Dean wasn’t kissing Sam anymore. His body was rigid and tense. Sam immediately halted his actions, and when Dean pushed roughly against his chest again, Sam stumbled back.

“I-I’m sorry,” Sam stuttered, not knowing what else to say. Dean didn’t respond. Instead, he turned on his heel and headed for the car. Sam stood, dumbfounded, in his place. He went to follow Dean, but as soon as he did, Dean warned, “ _Don’t_ follow me.” His voice was choked in emotion. Sam stopped in place. His knees felt weak and wobbly. As soon as Dean left, he found himself sitting on the cement, his ass aching. He stared at his brother’s retreating figure, unsure of what to think. Dean had kissed him… And Sam had taken advantage of him… And now Dean was angry, but Sam couldn’t figure out at whom his anger was directed. He felt the tears wetting his cheeks. He leaned back on one of the graves, and Sam felt the death surrounding him, weighing on him. He felt all the grief of the families who had been lost here overwhelming him. And he grieved for the part of himself that he’d lost the moment he’d left Stanford.

-

Sam couldn’t tell if it was hours or minutes later that his brother rejoined him, his face swollen and eyes red from the emotion he’d finally released. He sat beside Sam’s sodden body as the rain poured.

“I didn’t notice it was raining,” Dean remarked.

“Neither did I,” Sam said. He met his brother’s eyes, and Dean’s hard appearance immediately fell as soon as he saw his brother’s expression. The sadness, the hopelessness, the _need_. Dean’s eyes fell down to look at his lap.

“Do you want to talk about it now?” Dean asked, fiddling with his fingers.

“I do,” Sam admitted, “but I can’t.”

“What do you mean?” Dean looked up to read his brother’s face, his eyes puzzled.

“I just can’t talk about it yet. I think it might break me.” Sam’s voice sounded like a whisper with the pounding rain shouting over them. But Dean heard it, Sam knew.

“Okay,” He said, and he smiled lightly, his hair plastered to his head. He was soaked, and Sam thought this was the cutest he’d ever looked. So Sam smiled back.

“You wanna go in?” Dean asked, and Sam shook his head.

“Can I just stay here with you for a while?” He questioned, a small smile still playing on his lips.

“You’re such a girl.” Dean rolled his eyes but didn’t move. And, when Sam placed his head on his brother’s shoulder, Dean didn’t move; he didn’t even tense up. And, just for that one moment, Sam felt okay. He felt like they could maybe have some goodness out of life. But, boy, was he wrong.


End file.
